After that one night, Matsuda took to staying late more often. He made excuses to double and triple check files, record the news and copy police reports. His renewed efforts gained him much appreciation within the team, and even Mogi clapped him on the shoulder with respect. He had to admit, the attention was nice; it made him puff out his chest a little as he walked around the building: hold his head up a little higher.

However, though he may have been able to convince the others of his newly discovered dedication, he couldn't fool himself. He knew why he was really hanging back till 10 at night.

Light sat across the room at his desk, scribbling words into his report book. In the dim evening light, the sunset's rays drifted through the window and cast a golden glow around his bowed head. Amber shadows and light played across the stands of hair and Matsuda couldn't help thinking that the young man looked like an angel, sent down from heaven to cleanse the world of evil. Kira was evil, and together the task force was a pure power, with Light at it's centre.

Matsuda discovered that he actually liked working hard, if it meant he got to glimpse the look of gratitude on Light's tired face after a long shift. He appreciated the compliments too, which were not frequent, but not uncommon either.

"Thanks, Matsuda." Light would say, or:

"You've been a real help tonight, I would have been here till twelve if it wasn't for you."

Sometimes, Matsuda liked to imagine that their brief conversations would progress. That maybe they'd catch the same train one day, and talk about something that wasn't murder, and Light would smile.

When he was in school, he'd read an English text about a girl called Juliet and her lover Romeo. There was some lines he remembered:

'It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,'

He never got it back then. What did it mean, Juliet was a ball of gas in the sky? But he understood now, for if there were any way to compare the moment when Light would smile, it would be to compare it to seeing the brilliant sun; just as bright and blinding, and just as burning to stare at. Matsuda would always turn away.

Ah, but he was moping again: not getting any work done. He should have been an poet, he thought.

He tapped his pen against the edge of the desk in boredom.

Matsuda's apartment was a little pokey, with only three small rooms- including the bathroom. He would have loved to own a bigger place, which he could invite friends over to, or have a flat share, but he couldn't afford much: it didn't seem like anyone wanted to fund the fight against Kira anymore.

After brushing his teeth and a quick bowl of cereal, he shrugged on his suit and tie and headed off to catch his train. Walking along the city pavements he always liked to watch the young school children hurry about, with their rucksacks and pens, with a twinge of nostalgia. It hadn't been so long since he'd been one of them himself, but it felt like they were worlds apart.

Wait.

Was that Light?

"Hey! Light! Good morning!"

The other man turned from where he'd been inspecting the bus times. His expression was convulsed with shock for a moment, shoulders tense, but then he relaxed into an easy position. He was probably surprised to bump into his colleague this early.

"Matsuda. Good morning."

"Fancy seeing you here, Light! I always take the train here, cheaper than the buses you know? But I've never seen you around before? Are you catching the same one?" Matsuda babbled. He felt flustered. "Mine comes on ten minutes- I'm a bit early, ha."

"Do you often make a habit of projecting personal details in public, Matsuda?" Snapped Light suddenly.

Shoot! In his excitement and embarrassment he'd completely screwed up rule number one.

"No! I- ah! I'm sorry, I forgot... " Matsuda mumbled. God, he wished he wasn't so awkward.

"Yes," Agreed Light, "And not for the first time either. Be more careful."

They did end up catching the train together, just like Matsuda imagined, except... not. Because in the stony silence, as if it was a repeat of earlier with the students, they'd never been further apart.