A knight skips across the chessboard, the delicate cuts catching the silver lighting as it lands neatly on a black square. The entire chess set is meant to complement itself – garnet pieces with pyrite accents playing against yellow topaz adorned with ruby, all resting on the checkered, clean backdrop of pearl and obsidian. The details are proud, expensive, kings and queens and bishops and knights and rooks and pawns all carved to perfection.
It's a shame, really, how their original shine has been dulled by extended use, the natural oils of fingers smoothing down the more intricate cuts into simple rounded edges. There's no chipping, of course, no hideous signs of wear, just the gentle abrasions of time. It's to be expected, of course – without proper protective gear and exposure to the elements, even the most precious of materials will lose their luster with age.
But still, Light is careful to keep it well-maintained. Among the luxurious, bland, beautiful grandeur of his Capitol apartment, Misa's gift is the most cherished thing he owns.
Across the board, L tilts his head owlishly, examining Light's move as he rubs his thumb over his lower lip. With his unruly black hair, pallid skin, and ill-fitting outfit, he's an unseemly blot against Light's meticulous, white decor, an inky stain breaking up the tasteful backdrop. Knees pressed against his chest and spine horribly hunched, L's presence stands in diametrical opposition to the careful, perfect image that Light has cultivated for himself.
When beauty is prized above all else, it is only ugliness that stands out as unique. Right now, L is the only tangible thing in Light's entire universe.
L slides his bishop across the board, taking Light's knight in one fell swoop. "Check," he mutters, his vacant, shadowed eyes roving away from the pieces to meet Light's own.
Obsidian against pearl, pitch black against polished gold. It may look elegant, but it serves as a weak weapon indeed.
Light hums, absentminded. L had taken the bait, but of course, it had been obvious. That's why he'd chosen to use his bishop rather than his queen. Too arrogant not to take the simple offering, too cautious to risk sacrificing a more important piece.
Rook captures bishop. Queen captures rook. Check. Pawn protects king. Queen retreats, but it's too late. L's now a move behind, leaving Light enough time to push another pawn forward to become a queen. The game turns in his favor. Check.
Light has six pieces on the board. L has nine, but his pawns are in disarray. His king stands unguarded, a splattered bloodstain against the white square it sits on.
To win, you must attack.
Checkmate.
L frowns. "It was a good game," he admits, surly, as Light begins to reset the board. Bard, one of the Avoxes that handles his apartment, steps forward to begin helping. Light waves him off before he can get too close. He'd noticed the bruises peeking out from the edge of Bard's sleeve earlier, no doubt caused by some Capitolite finding a perceived mistake and using it as an excuse to take out any misplaced aggression. Light hadn't been able to find a moment to ask Bard for the Capitolite's identity, but he was eager to add another name into his mental roster of blackmail. Assaulting an Avox was hardly a noteworthy crime, but it would most likely signal a larger pattern of behavior, the discovery of which Light may be able to use to his advantage. In the meantime, there was no use aggravating Bard's injury when Light much preferred to handle this chess set himself anyway.
"Not our best." Should he pack it away instead? He'll have to leave his apartment soon anyway, and the only people who have permission to enter in his absence know its value. However, it's too precious to risk leaving it out to be damaged.
"You were distracted," L notes, and that makes Light look up.
"Don't tell me you let me win, then," Light says, a testy edge to his voice. L is the only person Light would ever think of as his equal, which meant that if Light wasn't playing to his usual standards, then L would have to be failing in turn.
And L never fails, because L's existence relies on results.
(If L had been a fellow tribute in Light's Games, Light thinks that he would have killed him with a dagger to the face, a blood-slick blade slashing through his cheeks and slitting his tongue into pieces. The force of the swing would knock loose his coffee-yellow teeth and carve the corners of his mouth into thick scarlet gouges. Shutting him up would have amounted to L's ultimate failure.)
"I would never let you win anything," L says, haughty. He reaches for a vanilla macaron, holding it awkwardly between two spindly fingers. As he brings it to his mouth, he adds, "I was distracted too."
Light can't help but perk up at that. Unlike Light, L is actually allowed to use his intellect. Sure, Snow had channeled L's deductive skills towards the destruction of Panem's rebellious factions, but at least L was given an outlet to use his brain. Light would kill for such an opportunity, instead of being shoved into his post-Games role as a prostitute. All Victors exist to further the Capitol's might, no matter how that may present itself.
Light may be brilliant, whip sharp in a way that defies a Career Victor's stereotypes. Anyone who came into his orbit knew it. His intelligence exuded from him like an aura, displayed itself in the sharp glint in his artificial golden eyes and soft-spoken words. People found themselves drawn in like moths to a flame, drunk and addicted.
However, Light is also beautiful.
He may be brilliant and the most clever person in any room that he graced with his presence. But in the Capitol, his beauty is the only thing that matters.
It's a bit pathetic, how he's having to live vicariously through L. But it's not the worst concession that he's made. At least L takes him seriously.
(Snow takes Light seriously. He'd watched the 70th Hunger Games, observed how easily Light could manipulate his fellow Tributes and kill with ruthless strategies built upon intellect rather than luck, and thus found an excuse to place him as far away from Panem's political machine as possible.)
(It's not like Snow didn't have a ready excuse. Light's District One. His fate was predestined.)
(But Light knows the truth. Breathing blood and shearing roses, Snow would risk his own death if it meant defeating his enemies. He needed Light to be too occupied to possibly become a rival. Snow may not be adept at mind games, but the brute force of his blackmail was enough to keep every Victor trapped under his thumb.)
(Well, most of them. But Light knows the steep cost of exclusivity, and it's one that he refuses to pay.)
Before Light can suggest the two of them continue this conversation on the roof, where there isn't any recording equipment and thus leaving L free to let Light help him figure out how to destroy the rebel's latest failing attempt, Light's watch vibrates on his wrist. It's an unfortunate tether to reality, grounding him back to his situation. L's presence grants a welcome escapism, but it's not a fantasy Light can afford to indulge in for long.
Especially now. With the 74th Hunger Games fast approaching, his schedule has become more cramped than ever. It's tedious, but necessary. No matter how much it wants to make Light crawl out of his own disgusting body, set his flesh ablaze so he never has to deal with its consequences again, he can use it to his advantage. He's lucky that Cashmere had continued to act as his mentor long after his victory, because the thought of using the appointments as a trading of secrets rather than money had hardly been a thought that he could cram into his scrambling, despairing head when he'd won four years ago. He would've gotten there eventually, he's sure of it, but the person he'd been at seventeen had been considerably weaker than the one he is now.
Seneca Crane is supposed to be this year's Gamemaker. Naked and blushing over bed sheets, Light now has enough information on Crane to get him executed five times over. He'll know if he needs it once the Reaping is over.
Unfortunately, this call won't get Light anything of worth. It's with Kiyomi.
Four years into their delusion of a relationship, and he has long since learned that anything gained over the enormously influential Takada family is useless to him.
"Next time, then," L says, eyes flicking down to Light's watch, a gift from his father in sleek silver and steel. He knows what the alarm means, of course he does. The job that he does for Snow is vastly different than the one Light is forced to, but the noose around their necks is the same. "I'll tell you about it."
"Please." Light begins to stand. "Feel free to stay here. I don't care."
"This is Sayu's last year, isn't it, Light-kun?" L says, a sudden, aggravating pivot, and Light freezes in place.
The Reaping for the 74th Hunger Games is only three weeks away. Sayu's birthday is in four. Light's done everything perfectly. He already knows the girl that District One is planning to volunteer. There should be no reason for Sayu to be chosen as this year's tribute. That knowledge doesn't stop the spark of dread from going down his spine at the thought of a Capitolite ditz gleefully pulling a name from that bowl, eager for the drama that a Victor's sister would bring to the arena.
Light can survive anything the Capitol throws at him. Sayu could not.
"That's right," Light answers, calm and measured.
L puts his thumb to his bottom lip, regarding Light with his wide eyes, endless pits sunken into his face. "What'll you do once you're free?"
Light scoffs. "Don't be stupid, L."
"Never," L says. It would sound offended if Light knew L any less. He bites into a macaron, and his next words are garbled around the treat. "How about, what do you think they'll threaten you with once she's free?"
"She'll never be free," Light says. "As long as I'm still alive, she's just as much their pawn as we are. Just because she won't be eligible for the Games doesn't mean that there's not ways to make her disappear." His voice goes airy. "And you would know all about that, wouldn't you, L?"
"Jealousy is a bad look on you, Light-kun."
"Nothing is a bad look on me."
The corner of L's mouth quirks up. "You sound like Misa."
"And she sounds like Snow. What's your point here, exactly?"
"Nothing, nothing." L ducks his head. The movement is childish, a faux innocence that doesn't fit quite right on him. He's never been a good actor. "I just wanted to know how much busier you're about to be." At Light's raised eyebrow, he adds, "I'm allowed to want to spend time with a friend, aren't I?"
"Nothing's that simple with you, L."
"No, I'll leave being simple to you." There's something in his tone, pitching just off the softer edge of teasing. Not pity. Never pity. Light would happily kill L, shove a knife between his hollowed ribs and let sugary blood drip scarlet onto his hand, if L ever showed a hint of it towards him.
Light sighs. He'd love to continue this forever, spend the rest of the weekend trading cheap shots with L rather than have to get another empty-headed Capitolite wet, but his family's situation is too precarious to risk doing something so selfish.
To think, his family didn't even know. It was insane to believe, if he made the mistake of dwelling on it for too long. They complained sometimes, that he never visited them in District One enough, where they were all safely living in the Victor's Mansion that Light's win had secured them. They thought that Light would rather shun them, waste away his life in an endless indulgence while surrounded by the inhuman glamor of the Capitol's elite.
And maybe that assumption would have had some truth to it, if Light had been less beautiful, less intelligent, less intriguing. Less likely to capture the attention of the Takadas, one of the wealthiest families in Panem, enough so for them to graciously send him a grand, solid gold scythe to the crumbling city of the 70th arena. It was ornate, eye-catching, stunning. One of the most expensive sponsorships in the history of the Hunger Games, a possessive, attention-commanding token.
It was a shitty weapon, all things considered, a hulking, unbalanced thing composed of a weak material. Light had reigned victorious anyway, even with the massive handicap, because he was the best graduate to emerge from District One's career training.
He'd won because of himself. His strategies. His ingenuity. His abilities.
He'd learned, later, that his glamorous scythe that had become his signature had been a gift from the Takada family. It was a gift that they had expected to be repaid.
But then again, maybe that wouldn't have mattered, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe his fate was sealed since his ninth birthday, when he'd been chosen for his athletic potential and had spent the rest of his youth dedicating himself to bringing glory back to his District at the cost of his education. The knowledge of what Victors were expected to do had always been an open secret to those training for the Games. He'd known what he was signing himself away to. When he was ultimately selected to compete, he'd have to have been a fool to refuse the honor.
He just hadn't known how all-consuming it was. He hadn't known how far Snow's reach extended. He hadn't known about how the Yagamis would be caught in a web of blackmail and leverage, entirely without their knowledge, in order to keep Light complacent.
The past didn't matter. The only thing that mattered now was securing his family's future. If that meant spending months uninterrupted in the Capitol, trapped in a cycle of allure and sex, then so be it. He'd claw autonomy where he could and bow his head in submission when he couldn't.
Light has to get ready. He needs to leave soon. He would so hate to keep Kiyomi waiting, after all.
Light turns away from L in a sweeping, deliberate movement, ignoring the barb completely. No distractions, no mistakes.
He's not properly dressed – gold is his signature, and Kiyomi loves to match it with black. She'd mentioned wanting to discuss something with him when she'd asked – read: ordered – for him to visit, which meant this definitely wouldn't just be a quick fuck. Shame. At least she was less annoying that way.
He doesn't keep a personal stylist, but the stark elegance of his own wardrobe negates their need. Victors aren't ordinary Capitolites – there's no expectation for them to follow the same audacious trends. After all, Victors aren't citizens, they're gods, the embodiment of hope and a symbol of oppressive power in one. There's no need to participate in the more extreme body modifications and fashion swings as the inhuman elite that the Victors live among. Even in the Capitol, as gaudily obsessed with its own image, Victors were spectacles, and extensive surgeries would only serve to undercut the message that they were all forced to represent.
Well, Light isn't infallible. He's a god demoted to sickly mortality. The clear amber irises that he'd been born with – inherited from his mother, passed through the generations and shared by him and Sayu – had been replaced with a striking, nauseatingly metallic gold, reflecting back meager light in the darkness. It had been Light's only physical concession, to make himself gold like victory, like a laurel wreath, like the scythe he carried to victory and the entrancing, blunted replica that now was mounted on Light's bedroom wall. It was a more intricate model than the one that the Takadas had sent, but dulled and unusable. Backlit and proud, it was a cutthroat, insulting reminder of Light's own defanging, courtesy of President Snow himself.
If anything, though, it filled the empty space. Light had never been one for interior design himself. And Snow had been right – the new eyes elevated his appearance. Anything to make himself more desirable was necessary in the bloodthirsty world of the Capitol, no matter how invasive the procedure itself may have been.
Getting ready isn't difficult – change into a void-black suit, trade in his silver watch for the gaudier, less practical golden one, apply just enough makeup to enhance his features without making it noticeable – with a neat precision perfected through copious amounts of practice. Kiyomi wants to talk, which means Light needs to bring wine. He prefers white, but she loves red, so that's the one they're having.
Moving too quickly lances a bolt of pain through his skull, and he can't help but grimace at the ensuing wave of light-headedness. It's expected, if annoying. It's been five days since he's eaten anything substantial, and he's not about to start now, no matter how many sweets he keeps stocked in his fridge for L's gluttonous sake. He needs to take a nutrition pill before he leaves to stave off any of the more unsavory effects, and then he's set.
"Bye, Light-kun," L mutters when Light emerges back into the sitting room, still in the same position on the couch that Light had left him. He'll most likely be gone by the morning, but that's hardly a guarantee. It doesn't particularly matter – L has a key to lock Light's apartment if he does decide to leave, and Light can trust L to not betray the little privacy he has left in the meantime. He waves a hand in a dismissive farewell, and then he's out the door.
The car that will take him to the Takada residence is waiting for him by the time he arrives downstairs. The driver never talks, but he's not an Avox, which means that he'd be too risky an addition to Light's network no matter how useful any of his potential intel might be. He never needs to be told where Light's going, but he always delivers him directly there anyway. It's a silent, creeping threat, and not one that Light is willing to dig deeper into.
The Capitol is sparkling and brilliant, a dazzling display of wealth built upon the decaying bones of twelve rotting districts. The evening skyline passes through the car's tinted windows in disjointed flashes, but Light hardly pays it mind. After years and years of dedicating his body and soul to it in every way imaginable, the Capitol has long since lost any of its extravagant whimsy. Instead, it stands as nothing more than a gilded monument to its own sins, drenched through with the blood and gore of its citizens.
Light ignores its glitz. The alternative is to drown in it, and Light's existence is too wire-strung to risk getting lost in the glamor.
The gate of the Takada residence opens automatically at their arrival, allowing the car to glide to a smooth stop in front of its gilded doors. Light doesn't bother acknowledging the driver as he exits the vehicle, and it speeds away the moment he's out of range. It's a desperate attempt at plausible deniability, if Light's feeling kind, or perhaps just a rabid need to throw him quicker to the wolves. Not that it matters, the condensation of the ice-cold wine bottle in his hands already making his skin prickle with freezing discomfort. It's a familiar song and dance – there's no use grasping for the idea of humanity from a Capitolite.
The Takadas live in a variety of glistening mansions of veined, ostentatious marble, and this one, nestled in the city's heart, is no different. It's used primarily for grandiose parties, status-garnering events for the hordes of elite socialites infesting the city, but it contains a series of back corridors and rooms for more private gatherings. Light knows those paths well, and makes his way through the veritable maze as soon as a dark-haired Avox answers the door.
The Avox is unfamiliar, and Light takes an imperceptible moment to file her profile away in his mind even as he visibly ignores her presence. He hadn't missed the aborted bob of her throat as she bends her head in a hasty, submissive bow to him. The awkward, remaining hesitance, still unused to being mute, means that she must have been newly enslaved. She was most likely a recently captured revolutionary, based on her brief reluctance to show respect to Light, a comparable figure of authority. It's a curiosity that one of her first assignments was as an attendant to one of the most influential Capitol households. A puzzle worth returning to later, certainly.
Kiyomi is already sitting when Light arrives, perfectly poised in a plush velvet chair as she waits. Another one stands empty across from her, separated by a petite coffee table. The room is built for comfort, detached as it may be, with the goose-feathered, king bed lavishly decorated in the center. A glass pane takes up an entire wall in a mimic of a window. Tonight, it was projecting an image of a night's sky, much more starry and colorful than the Capitol's light pollution would naturally allow.
Framed against the screen, Kiyomi looks celestial as she turns smoothly to meet his eyes. She doesn't stand to greet him – of course not, that would betray an eagerness to see him that would contradict her aloof image – but her disconcertingly dark eyes still alight when he comes into view. He kisses her cheek, lover-like, and she smiles, teeth hidden behind painted lips.
"Kiyomi," Light greets her warmly. "It's been too long. You look stunning."
She's wearing a shimmering, midnight-black dress, made of a fine silk that looks like liquid and accented with golden lace flares. It ruffles at one shoulder, the dark fabric creating a cascading illusion that travels the length of her body. The only true jewelry she's wearing is a golden necklace – a thin, fragile chain that shows an intricate scythe pendant. She wears it often – it was a gift from Light, after all, a miniature of the signature weapon that she had eagerly crippled him with. Her outfit was far-removed from the psychedelic, butterfly-themed fashion craze that was currently ripping through the Capitol, but it suits her well.
It was something that she took pride in, ignoring the fickle Capitol fashion trends. Instead, she opted for a classic color palette of black and gold, leaving it up to her stylists to arrange a show-stopping outfit for her every appearance. It was a way to stand out, Light had to give it to her. Amid a sea of bright colors and animal features, Kiyomi's elegant aesthetic turned heads. Her refusal to bow to shifting tastes was properly befitting of her status, the celestial heiress who gleefully sparked envy in friends and rivals, all with one of the most covetable Victors in the past decade hanging off her arm.
But as much as Kiyomi wished to claim superiority over her peers, even she couldn't help but fall whim to the allure of body modification, permanently representing her wealth through extensive surgeries. Shimmering golden ribbons were etched onto her skin, creating delicate, lace-like patterns. Diamonds adorned the ends of the designs, glittering where they were buried flush against her flesh. The starry array over her body acted as a permanent form of jewelry, trailing down her arms and swirling over her exposed back and chest. Light knew from experience that only her face was free from the complicated decorations, the metal raised just high enough to cut if forgotten.
No, her face was barren of the embellishments. But that was only because she didn't want anything to serve as a distraction from her eyes. Kiyomi had them surgically dyed. Her scleras had been tattooed ink black, a flawless, unending void. In a terrifying contrast, her irises had been turned into shining, glowing golden rings. The first time that she'd shown them to Light, oblivious to his muted horror, she'd said that she'd wanted the two of them to match. Kiyomi had seen his altered eyes, and wanted to do him one better.
Every Capitolite looked alien, but even the ones who preened at their talons and whiskers seemed much more human than Kiyomi.
"You came," Kiyomi breathes, as if Light had ever had a fucking choice not to. She's a creature of maddening contradictions, drifting haphazardly between her treasured fantasy of a consensual relationship and her gleeful, ready flaunting of control. He's a cold-blooded killer with a razor mind to match, but she delights in her ownership of him, reduced to her personal taxidermied lion.
"Of course," he responds, husky. "I can't stay away from you for long."
Her smile fades at his words, a touch of discontentment. The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably at the rejection, but Light sets aside the troubling implications of it for now – the evening's barely begun, and he would know by far if she was actually upset at him.
Kiyomi allows a quiet huff of air to escape her and brushes a single lock of dark hair away from her face, the strands of gold threaded into her scalp artfully freed from her intricate up-do. As Light puts down an unopened bottle of wine on the table and settles down in the chair across from her, she starts with, "You know, I just learned that Yuri is getting engaged."
Oh, Light knows. He was a participant in Yuri's celebratory threesome with her and her hapless fiancé's brother last week. "Is she?" he responds, tone airy and with an eyebrow arched in detached curiosity. "I hadn't heard."
"No, I suppose you wouldn't have," she says, sly. "I've barely seen you, Light. Hardly anyone has."
And what a damn shame that is, isn't it? Light rests his chin in his hand, letting the corner of his mouth tick up as he regards her. "You know I'd never leave you hanging, Kiyomi," he says, voice low. "I'm supposed to be a mentor in the upcoming Games this year. Duty's been calling me away, that's all."
"Already working on getting those sponsors, aren't you, Light?" she asks, tilting her head. There's something at the edge of her tone – a dare, almost, to call her out on it, or respond on the defensive, or, god forbid, admit that she's right. Light freezes in place, a split-second of weakness. It only takes a heartbeat for him to cover his reaction, smooth out any lingering sense of panic that the implication draws from his appearance. Light is a professional, damn it.
The Takada family and their goddamn mind games. Light wants nothing more than to yank on the back of Kiyomi's elegant, golden necklace until the dainty scythe pendant saws a gorey hole straight through the base of her throat.
Kiyomi looks away from Light, cheeks coloring in embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry," she apologizes. "I didn't mean to say it like that."
"Of course not," Light says, soothing and perfect. To distract himself from the pleasant fantasy of shoving the poisoned tip of a spear through her stomach, Light beckons over the Avox hovering in the room's periphery to uncap their wine. The Avox – Charlise, not an official personal Avox to the Takada family, but one that rotates through their households enough to be worth creating an alliance with – is painstakingly careful not to spill anything from the decadent bottle as they serve them both. Light ignores their stilted, terrified movements to ask Kiyomi, "What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?"
She sighs again, waving away Charlise impatiently to claim a goblet for herself. "It's just, this whole thing with Yuri," she trails off, uncertain. The blush hasn't left her face. Interesting. Kiyomi's not one to get flustered. "She's barely our age, and she's already settling down into a respectable relationship!"
"Don't tell me you're jealous," Light says, voice lilting into a tease. "Yuri Kuroda never seemed like a particularly high bar to measure yourself against."
"I'm not jealous!" Kiyomi insists, content to disregard the tangible thread of envy in her tone. Light holds back a groan. "It's just that she's getting married to a man that she clearly loves and we're all supposed to celebrate her for it! She's getting her perfect fairy tale ending, and I'm not, and it's," Kiyomi hesitates, "unfair."
Not this again. "Kiyomi, you're young and beautiful. You have years ahead of you before you should even think about settling down. Besides," Light grabs his own wine glass, swirling the scarlet liquid absentmindedly as he continues, "I can guarantee that Yuri and her husband will be split before the year's end."
"You're missing the point!" Kiyomi crosses her arms, her visual frustration a stark digression from her usual prim and proper attitude. Volatile. It's nothing that Light can't handle, but it's annoying to deal with nonetheless. "It's unfair that some airhead like Yuri can get married and that we can't!"
"Darling, listen to yourself-"
"No!" It's childish, an oncoming temper tantrum. Maybe Light really had spent too much time away, if he hadn't noticed her spiraling towards this point. Kiyomi seems to realize the inelegance of her outburst and immediately reins in her displeasure. She doesn't pout, because she's a Takada and therefore too refined and dignified to do something as crass as pouting, but Light can see the flash of displeasure that flares across her features, the way her mouth tightens as she glances up at him through her lashes, pitch black sclera an unsettling contrast to her pale skin. Light stops himself from rolling his eyes. Who in god's name does she actually think that she's fooling here, exactly?
He has to play this carefully. Light can't mention the real reason that they can't tie the knot – politically, Snow would never let them, because despite how the Takada family attempted to claim him, Light's still in his physical prime and therefore too valuable to be taken off the market, so to speak. Kiyomi must know that, at least in part, no matter her determination to see them as an actual romantic couple. As close to publicly together as they can possibly be, while still allowing the Capitol to leech off of Light in its own way. That's not even going into his wholly separate farce of a relationship with Misa, which was a particularly intricate, fairy-tale performance done solely for the amusement of Panem at large, rather than to cater to the whims of a single selfish woman.
Ah. There's an angle to go with, then.
Light shifts surreptitiously and glances at the door in an obvious move that reads as covert. He frowns, a careful departure from his earlier, placating behavior. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kiyomi still with curiosity. Hook, line, and sinker – she's so predictable.
"Kiyomi," Light starts, and even his whispers are grandiose, an illusion of secrecy in a society that shuns the concept of privacy, "the only reason I can bring myself not to marry you is because I need to keep you safe."
"What do you mean, keep me safe?" Kiyomi asks, but her interest is piqued beyond her arrogant tone. "You know how powerful my family is – who do I possibly have to be afraid of?"
It's an insult. Light ignores it.
Light sighs, forlorn with a quiet devastation. "It's not anything that you've done. It's just – it's Misa."
Kiyomi sniffs disdainfully. "What does that empty-headed harlot have anything to do with this?"
The perfect alibi. She has everything to do with this. Light doesn't smile in satisfaction, but it's a near thing.
"I know how much it hurts you, love, but you're aware that most of Panem think Misa and I are in some sort of relationship, right?" Kiyomi scowls at that, a flare of pure jealousy – the Capitol elite are well-aware of the control that Kiyomi flaunts over Light, but that doesn't stop them, and the rest of the country, from fawning over a picture-perfect romance between two popular Victors. Misa set the stage for it, after all. She's smarter than she looks by far, and is worth Kiyomi a hundred-fold.
Kiyomi waves a hand, the movement sharp with anger. "But she's still harmless!" she exclaims. "It's been years! Surely everyone can tell that we're a much better match for each other by now!"
"Harmless?" Light repeats, voice just the amount of incredulous without tipping over into something mocking. "She's anything but. I know that she projects the image of being cutesy pop idol Misa-Misa, but that's only in public. I know what she's like when the cameras are shut off." He takes a deep, fortifying breath, and leans in closer. "She's dangerous. I don't want you on her warpath."
And that catches Kiyomi's attention. Capitolites thrive on instant gratification – the fact that she's waited this long to pull out this particular outburst in such a violent manner is a miracle in of itself. The idea that her and Light's union hasn't happened because she's special rather than any selfish cowardice on his part must be the ego boost she's been craving. Still, she whispers, "Dangerous? How?"
"Do you remember her interviews, when she was still a tribute? She said that she only volunteered to get close to me. And then she backstabbed everyone in her path to achieve that goal. Even though she won, she hasn't lost that – that killer instinct, even now. She's obsessed, and I'm afraid of what she would do if I revealed how much you really meant to me." His golden eyes are bright, a subtle glow in the dimmed light and sincere in every way. "I love you, Kiyomi," he purrs. "Nothing will ever stop me from doing that. I'm just – I'm just so scared that you might get hurt because of me."
Kiyomi's black, black eyes are alight with excitement. "Really?" she says, and it's only the years of acting the elegant heiress that keeps the open giddiness out of her voice. "I would never have known about her being a psycho, but thinking back, you're right. You know, my family did everything we could to ensure that the other, useless tributes could crush her. It's such a shame that we couldn't protect you like we did before."
There's a feral roaring in Light's chest, building behind his teeth with a rushing ferocity at the words. He clenches his fists to keep the beast contained, because if his expression even twitches in revelation of his rage, the consequences will be devastating to him, to his family, to his fellow Victors, to District One.
"Thank you," he murmurs rather than screams, rather than rip Kiyomi's face off, rather than burn this entire fucking city to the ground until nothing but dirty ash coats the ugly ruins of Panem. "You know how grateful I am to you for my victory."
There's a pause, a small eternity as the two of them stare each other down, master and slave. And then Kiyomi smiles, blood-red lips turning directly up rather than out in a smug, pretty satisfaction. She stands, graceful, and neatly sidesteps the table until she towers directly over him. She looks down at Light, her very own pet murderer, close enough that Light can make out his own reflection in the empty void of her gaze. Kiyomi's hands whips out, her pristine, manicured nails digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks and tugging at his carefully styled hair to pull him up into a gleeful, hungry kiss.
And like always, Light submits.