AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello, and welcome to the fic! Now, technically, this is written in the 2nd Person POV—but it's not a reader-insert. The writing style is just done so as poetic flair, and because it has something to do with a certain part of the narrative. There's a reason it's in 2nd Person. That being said, this will be a slow-build story—as in very slow. It will be a while before the plot picks up; and here, I've prioritised character development over the plot.

Also, this will feature philosophy as a subject. It's a niche of mine—not to mention that I major in the course—and I wanted to feel a connection with my own fic. There'll be rambles scattered in. So, if that's not in your forte (or if you're simply not interested), then, well, feel free to click out; no harm done ((:

Moreover; this is set during the manga timeline, by the way. The year in the prologue is 2006. Later on, there's hints of the anime timeline peeking through, though.

GOD IS NOT A PUPPETEER

Prologue — Monster, Monster (Won't you die?)

It was in the middle of March when you managed to have a word with him, alone, after everything that happened.

You did not actually plan on encountering him when the inevitable approached—when the farce ended and you needed to step on all the broken pieces once more—but you supposed some form of closure was better than none at all.

(Truthfully, it is the only thing you have left.)

You decided to take yourself to the rooftop of the last hotel that you stayed at. You needed to think, a space to breathe, without the worry of anyone actively watching you. There was a camera by the end of the entrance, but you paid it no mind, and simply went on to sit near one of the AC units.

It's warm, obviously, was the first thing that you thought of, but it's fine. It's mostly quiet.

You liked the small grounding noise of the appliance. With it, the sun came out enough that the morning seemed just the slightest bit blinding, but you would say that it truly was not too bad. You knew this stood to be one of the last few chances that you could spend to be completely secluded. With nothing on your mind, you leaned back and observed the rest of Tokyo, basking in the atmosphere as the last of the snowfall drifted down.

(Alone, or lonely?)

Your mind was surprisingly clear today, you realised. Now; there were no haunted trinkets to ponder on, no insistent voices to banter with, no angry ghosts to follow, no awful gods to be wary of—not anymore. Here, everything was easy, for a while.

(Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.)

Until, finally, it was not.

He arrived.

He did not seem surprised to find you on the roof.

You did not expect him to be.

(Truthfully, you do not even know what you expected at all.)

As you watched him approach your position by the edge of the roof, you were reminded of a scene that nearly matched this occasion, where it rained and he was the one staring off into the distance. You marvelled at how much had changed. Now, it could be said it looked almost the same—though, obviously, with a few reversals.

The victor still reached out to the defeated, the triumphant still walked over to the doomed one; and all of it still happened in a lonely space high above the city, in a small haven of wavering amelioration that existed to carry the words of two people both resigned and amused with their situation.

But it was not raining, nor was it dark. And you did not even feel like you have lost at all—despite the hysterical swirling of this-and-that-and-everything-else, like flies atop a corpse, in your chest. Here, both the winner and the loser spent one of their last moments together—but in point of fact, unlike that version of life where they talked about fools and liars, you did not actually bother playing the game they did.

It was sunny, it was airy, and it was peaceful.

In reality, you were the one who wrote the rules for them—who made it possible for them to have acted the way they did, who allowed them the satisfaction of their own conclusions; you had been the one in control this entire time, no matter how you comprehended it, the one who gave the confirmation of everything they existed to represent.

In reality, you were a spectator, with only your opinions to have dictated how the show was perceived; you knew how things happened and you let them come to pass. But even then, all your worries went unheard, regardless of what you thought you wanted or needed.

A brief thought occurred to you—of how everything started and led you to this.

That was three years ago.

It was always strange, how time always made itself non-existent and unimportant, how unaware of its presence many became—until the present skidded by and the significance of every moment went thumping down on their heads.

You had not been excused from this. As you recall the memory of that last calm summer—that period of airy reprieve before everything utterly went to shit—you let the last of a curse die out on your tongue. Back then, when only a few weeks remained before school officially ended, the only thing that lingered with you was the yearning ache for something—anything—which felt familiar.

The people you knew in your childhood had faded away: the passing acquaintances you grew fond of continued to be unremarkable in their futures as much as they had in their farewells, the old rivals you jabbed and jeered with forgot the past and congratulated you for perceived accomplishments, the ones you once held dear finally stopped with their passivity and looked forward to seeing a new chapter in their lives.

You did not blame them. Back then, you lied on the brink of a fall—but you submitted to the collapse, taking reality for what it gave you. You endured it, grinning and bearing the entirety of which came to eventuate.

Through it all, you found yourself stuck in a rut once more.

Through it all, the individuals who dared to call themselves a part of this cursed family fell apart, one by one.

And through it all, Kira took any last sense of normalcy you had.

(Truthfully, you do not know what you wanted to expect.)

The man you have been avoiding sat right beside you, imitating the posture you have taken. The two of you remained that way for a few seconds, neither willing to make the first move for conversation. He liked to tease with a dead air and you liked to return the mockery—and really, you would not be surprised if nothing truly came out of this dialogue. You could fall asleep like this, you thought—with nothing but the busy lull of the city and the mutual silence, while you curled up on the asphalt. Still, you knew that it would not last.

His voice came out in a low tone.

(Truthfully, you never know what to expect—)

"You have very beautiful eyes, I hope you know that."

You blinked.

"…what?"

No, this was not how you envisioned the conversation going at all. When you turned to him, he went on as if he did not just derail any form of hemming and hawing you planned to do with him today.

"You have very—"

"Yes, I know, astute observation. Thank—hm." You cut yourself off and bit at the skin of your lips in thought as a memory from so long ago resurfaced. When it came to you, you raised an eyebrow.

"Like carbon and neptunite crystals."

At your look, he smiled indulgently, much like a pet owner did with their animal companion. You stayed quiet. Still, he did not look at you, and only continued to focus on nothing in particular, until he responded to your statement.

"You don't seem surprised at how it turned out."

You shrugged.

"No, it's actually as if you wanted it to happen that way."

"I'm sure Vin's still hung on that theory."

"Gevanni also has solid proof of your complicity."

"And what do you expect me to do about it?"

"Not much, to be frank." He blinked. "I just thought I'd pay you a compliment before anything else."

But he was not actually flattering you, you were sure. He was saying something else with his words, something you did not have the energy nor much of a desire to uncover. At some point in the past, you might have conceded to his intentions, excited at the prospect of even talking to him. But here, now, you came up to the roof to rest, not to dissect another torrent of double meanings.

It had only been strange that he began the way he did—the way you did, three years ago, when you first met one another. Though, you supposed he liked his ironies.

"And what compliment would that be?"

"Why, that you have beautiful eyes, of course."

"So you've said."

"For all that you're generous with affections, you're surprisingly greedy with your true emotions." His movements were languid, but in a certain light, he almost looked tense and uncomfortable. "Your eyes have always been particularly cold."

You quirked your lips. "Cold."

"Yes, cold. Not empty, mind. But just about blank enough to be malevolent." He traced small shapes on the snow. He drew a cake, and then a cloud, and then a house. You followed his every movement, pouting a bit, and then, he sighed. "Or something along that line."

"I don't see how that matters now."

"Watari's been speaking with a few government officials. Those very same people bayed for your brother's blood."

You hummed. "And what does that have to do with me?"

"He's not getting a trial."

"I already knew. Anyone involved in or with the case could've easily deduced that."

"And they're getting those other members of the main teams to talk to you. That…look in your eyes," and here, he paused as if even he did not know how to properly word himself, "they'll see it for what it is."

You faltered, scowling.

(You dig your nails into your palms, ignoring how the edge of your fingers trembled in the chill…or perhaps with the familiar arising of apprehension.)

Previously, you had been told that neither the KTF nor the SPK have been disbanded on the declared suspicion of future Kira individuals, though everything stalled to a lull as it came to the aftermath of the investigation. When the world was notified of this development, many celebrated, many grieved, and many laughed. The men you spent your time with for the past three years—strangers that long became more than simple passing faces—finally carried themselves with relieved airs, although pitying and hesitant.

You should be happy for them. You should be glad, inspired maybe, at the fact that you have all seemingly found a new security, a new constant to spend your times with—that, after all your group had achieved, you have finally arrived at the point of conclusion. That there existed an end to all things, even the ones that had seemed so distant and impossible; it was a thing of note to acknowledge and corporealise.

(You pointedly do not think about the last time you saw them.)

After being stuck with nothing but the stifling circles of hotel walls and tables stacked with reports; after months and months of straining your eyes to parse through the glares of computer screens; after the eventual numbness that came with hunger pangs and sleeping pills and unsweetened caffeine; after the speculation and the vacillation; after the paranoia of constant scrutiny; you have finally found a moment of peace.

You had actual clemency, now. Rest.

(But it is quick. Fleeting. Always, it passes you by when you need it most.)

(Mono no aware. Saudade. Mono no aware. Saudade.)

Then again, you were not truly let off from suspicion—not completely, at any rate. The man beside you knew that most of all.

Ever since your brother's damning statement in the warehouse—gods, Light, why, why, why—along with whatever evidence Gevanni gathered from your dorm, officials decided that the investigation would not halt. Paused and shelved for the moment, but never truly done. It was a waste of resources, especially when there was not even a full guarantee of what could happen in the future.

You would know that—but honestly, who were you to stop them?

One thing that stayed consistent throughout the years, however, was your conflict between the reluctance to wait and the impatience to let things pass. That unrelenting wish to stay in the past, in what had been familiar; versus the insistence for the future to run faster, for it to already leave.

You were on some form of watchlist, now, you knew it. You should not have felt so much anger at that thought, especially since it made sense—after all, you could just be as bad as your brother, maybe worse, or perhaps not, but the others could never ascertain that—but nothing stopped the hatred that festered inside your chest; and it was a wound long open and left to putrefy. Not in the least, you resented the fact that your father also condemned you as he died—one last whisper, one last attempt to unveil the truth of your being; he sentenced you to another spiral of madness—and when the nights were high, you nestled into your bed with a silent cry and a calm fury.

(Mono no aware. Saudade. Mono no aware. Saudade.)

Sometimes, when you were dazed enough with your life, you forgot that the entire story was also a paracosm—a fiction in itself, and while the original narrative had not been born from a man's childhood, it was in yours, the second time around.

(Once, you love this world. Once, you love the thrill of this tale. Once, you feel so deeply for it, and all the characters you come to know. Ironic, that when it becomes your reality, you start to loathe it. Funny, indeed; and your arrogance and ignorance are only the beginning of something even worse.)

Sometimes, when you bothered to feel enough to make your own chest hurt, you liked to pretend that you were fine—that everything would have worked out in the end, in one way or another, and all that you had done were only accessories to make you feel better about yourself. Sometimes, resignation was all you really had. Here, now, at the head of it all, you sat with the man who became the catalyst for the ending. You were still on edge; anything to do with him spelt trouble, really, even a simple parting—but you could afford to oblige one last hurrah. You took your places beside one another and acknowledged the unspoken truths; only ever waiting for the other to strike first or fall.

"You know, you could try to look sadder about it." He quipped. "You're really not helping yourself."

"I wasn't exactly planning to." You curled your lips. "God—I thought you'd've taken a hint by now."

"Were you contemplating suicide?"

Surprised again, you laughed. "Seriously?"

"I've been thinking of the possibility. You were, weren't you?"

"For a time, maybe."

"What changed?"

"I finally decided to do something with myself."

"But you were already doing quite well for yourself—"

"Oh, right, because you hadn't barged in and fucking destroyed things."

"That's relative."

(Mono no aware. Saudade. Mono no aware. Saudade.)

"Christ, shut up."

Perhaps sensing that you were getting nowhere, he switched topics. Blandly, he stated, "They still want to test you on your ability. The anthropology team needs a record."

An account, to know your limits. A leash, to keep you at bay. You groaned at the reminder, running a hand on your face. "Great. Now, I'll be a lab rat."

"You won't be a lab rat, I assure you. They just need to run a few tests."

"Same banana."

"On that note," he glanced at you, "you'll also have to speak with the psych team. The Task Force agreed to have counselling."

Where was this, three years ago?

"Joy." You muttered.

"Quite."

After that, the two of you lapsed into another uneasy silence. He continued staring off into nothing and you verged on the edge of falling asleep. Before you could close your eyes, however, he spoke up.

"…did you ever regret it?"

You licked your lips, sighing away the momentary tiredness, and fiddled with a lock of your hair.

"It was…laughably easy, you know." You said, with a hint of a chuckle in your voice. "And as the years passed, it was laughably dull."

You stole a look at the numbers above his head.

(They burn red, red, red.)

"It passes."

"But you weren't exactly happy, were you?" He hummed under his breath, ignoring the way your eyes shifted to something he could not see. "That burden should've been hard to ignore, as long as you had that kind of knowledge around. I suppose this is why you've been the way you were, since your childhood?"

"Yes, well." You snorted. "The weight doesn't settle if you never stop."

"Never stop?"

"Yeah."

"Never stop what?"

"Doing."

"Doing what?"

"Nothing. Anything." You shrugged. "Living, I guess."

From the corner of your eyes, you observed his form. There was a frustration in his expression, all wound up and restless. He knew you had him cornered into a spot you barely even realised, and he knew you knew—at least about the indignity. The man desired to dig deeper into this conundrum and you caused much of his ordeal in it, stopping him from ever truly achieving the answers he wanted to have.

And now, he was irritated by your hedging, knowing well you might have had a point about this—about enlightenment and contentment and whatever else you have told him in the past. But at the same time, he refused to accept it because it seemed unfathomable, how you went about with your own life. You supposed you have always been quite the frustration for him—even before the two of you came to this point, even before you formally met, or even before he shifted his first attentions to you. Not that he boasted the right to talk—because then, he would be the hypocrite, and he realised this, but he could not stop the childish emotions whirring through him anyways.

And finally, for one clear moment, you saw through him.

Once, you thought you would have been able to witness something no one else had. And you did. You peered into that darker side of him and smiled upon that abyss, recognising kinship when you came across it; you shared something intimate, something special to the two of you, even if you refused to voice that notion out loud. When the time came and you had to contend with his person, you grew elated at the thought of being seen for what you truly were—and pursued for it.

Now, though, you only found him lacking. You cared no more about pride, at this point; and where his regard used to rove over you in blatant fascination, in hopeful jests and theories—these days, you could only call yourselves bitter acquaintances, for all what your relationship had been worth, back then.

(Mono no aware. Saudade. Mono no aware. Saudade.)

You had nothing left to lose.

Not a family, not a friend, not a single ally in this situation.

Once, perhaps, you would have responded to this pettiness. If you had met him earlier, maybe even during your time in the city of angels, you could have persuaded your own mind and spurred yourself into action—when you were still a bit more lovestruck, when you were still angrier at the unfairness of people and the world you all lived in. If he cornered you as you made to follow your lover into his madness, you might have considered the idea of the mutual (equal) partnership.

If you cared for him at a time before the dawning of the mess you yourself made, you might have pushed that consideration for him. An assiduity that would have drawn you to the deepest truths to his person, and made you smile. Now, though, you found that you were not just tired. You were exhausted—a husk of what you thought you wanted to be, a replica of what you became in another life. You looked upon him now, and you slumped in fatigue—in burnout—as the words left your mouth.

You could not keep up with him, just as he could not seem to get a full measure of you. A part of it felt…oddly nostalgic—hilarious, if for the fact that you found things ironic, because it was all already a tragedy long in the making—but sentiments alone were not enough to distract you from the matter at hand.

"You of all people should know how it feels—" you glanced at him, "that incessant drive to keep going."

He looked vaguely amused. "I specifically remember a time where I asked you this very question. You said you ran only on, and I quote, 'Two hours of sleep, suicidal thoughts, and an oreo.'—hardly an explanation as to why you kept going as you did, no?"

"It's called adrenaline, genius." You rolled your eyes.

"Was everything you did in the past three years an act of instinct, then? The last seven?"

"You could say that, yes."

"And how would you phrase it?"

"Stumbling through batshit stupidity."

"Dawn. Quit it with the games."

It was the way he said your name that made you pause. Things have, at last, come to the point where he became more than just displeased—it was in the stiffening of his form, in his refusal to look at you, in the slight flare of his nostrils. He looked much like you when you were agitated, funnily enough. You had your own extremes…but this side of him—the one he, in the past, tried to shrug off; his composure was truly failing.

A part of you felt vindicated at these small twitches. Because…even now, years later, you still wondered at the similarities between him and the second—the so-called substitute, the promising replacement. For all that they kept themselves separate, they had been more alike than what meets the eye. Your lover would have both mooned over and spurned that statement; and as you came to this realisation, you smiled bitterly down at your hands.

"It wasn't really instinct as much as it was desperation."

"But desperation can come from instinct. Some dying people still fight back, even when they know their situations are futile."

(Like the way his image overlaps with that of the charming young man with the red eyes, and the way you keep comparing them. Like the way you do not want to look at him, because you are always seeing someone else. And the way each time, you flinch, knowing you cannot stop yourself.)

"Instinct, huh?" You rasped out something resembling a laugh. "You think the old man tried clawing at his neck when the rope kept him in place? You think he realised the futility of everything that happened? Of what was meant to happen?"

Instinct, adrenaline, or whatever else you might have called it—it did nothing to change the ending. The story still followed a path of destruction, no matter how much more…convenient, perhaps incontrovertible, this certain route became. A simple truth remained: this eventuality you followed had only been the lesser of two evils. It was not kinder, no. But it was the one you had the most control over. Whether your current chaos was born from nature, nurture, negligence, or need, one thing remained clear: this was the life you tried, in impotence, to preserve. And now, this was what you could save, the only contentment you could still have.

(It has been a while, but you still want to peel this man apart, to destroy each layer that made his being—if only to satiate the agitation that never leaves; if only to gratify yourself from the rage that lingers. It bites and it gropes at you; a white-hot need to take everything of him and pound it to dust, then build him again with dirt and water, and then wreck it once more.)

"This isn't about that."

"Oh, but it could be, and it is. So, let's use that as an example, hm?"

"Are you alluding to the existence of fate?"

"Isn't that what we also last talked about?"

"Do you believe everything that happened was predetermined, then?"

Oh, you don't even know half of it.

(Truthfully—even he would not know what to expect.)

"If so, then woe is me, for all that has come and all whom I had to suffer."

"You wound me." He side-eyed you. "And answer the question."

"Haven't I already said this before?"

"I'm afraid I wasn't able to hear the voices in your head."

"Bastard." You huffed.

No, you did not believe that fate existed, nor that you had an ultimate meaning and purpose. Your actions in this world proved that—the very effects of your existence proved it. But you would say that, because you had life, because you could comprehend this in the first place, then you must have experienced such a thing. And because that experience was there to become your current present, you could say with certainty that you had a consciousness to begin with—and the cognizance to recognise a pattern of what your 'fate' would have been.

Each person was an amalgamation of journeys from birth to death, and they must respect every other being as a unique experience capable of teaching something, regardless of their circumstances. Some things happened as they had, and some things did not, and you could only be left to react to them as you saw fit.

And that was that.

You told him as much.

(What is it that you are seeking to achieve?)

(Even now, you cannot tell what you want.)

The answer had long stared at you in the face, only you ignored it—until the truth boiled and burst. From the moment you were born, you became chaos. This was a new world, and it did not care about trivialities like cause or effect. Things happened simply because that was the way they were, the way they had been made, the way they ended up being. It did not matter what you wished for—because somehow, in some way, everything else derailed when you least expected it to happen.

(Mono no aware. Saudade. Mono no aware. Saudade.)

"It's what made the losses worth knowing."

"So that every victory could be sweeter."

"Is that what you said to yourself when you decided to take on being a detective?"

At that, he stilled, and slowly turned to you. "It wasn't an impulsive decision, you know. I enjoy solving puzzles. I genuinely like being a detective—all arrogance from what I do aside. And I suppose I don't consider it a set thing. I did it all on my own merit. The problem is—I've never lost, and I've never been led on for this long by any other mystery."

"Riddle me this, then. Have you found the answer you were looking for, now?"

"No. And that's what frustrates me. I'm aware enough to admit I'm being childish. But still, it seems as if—" he grit his teeth, frowning, "it's as if, for every answer that you give me, I only end up with more questions."

You brought a hand to your mouth, fingers lined together but overextended as you covered your lips in mock laughter.

"Ah. Ahaha-hah." You deadpanned.

"I'm not feeling particularly amused."

"That's rough, buddy."

"You're a horrible mix of the boys. It's bothersome."

"I'm flattered. Glad you think so."

"That—" he sighed, glaring into his hands as if they would have given him patience, "please, would you be honest with me?"

You threw him a look of entertained disbelief, scoffing. "I've been doing just that. Not a single lie, I assure you."

"Direct. Please be direct."

"You should've asked the right questions, then. Now, you know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of your attitude."

L Lawliet finally regarded you with full consideration.

Your positions were awkward, still sitting on the floor while you twisted to take in all his presence. The banter was over, and now you had to give him the answers he sought. The detective you knew did not take kindly to idle chatter and mindless mercies, not when they had been done at his expense.

What a sore loser.

At last, a part of you crowed with glee upon realising you managed to agitate and unnerve him.

"Beyond Birthday figured you out. Years ago. And yet I've spent time with you longer than he has, known what your life and your family was like before he did. He was there for only one summer, wasn't he? One summer," he snorted, shaking his head, "and perhaps a half. But for some reason, and against his own better judgement, he was able to solve a puzzle I couldn't. That simply can't do."

Belatedly, you realised how close your faces were from one another. Soft blows of heat passed between the two of you, your breathing almost loud in the tiny space you have made—and the humming of the AC unit you leaned against became a source of slight comfort. Its buzzing blended in with the ambience around you, and suddenly, the desire to lay there forever made itself known.

You could sit there, doing nothing, and it would be as if time never mattered at all.

"Does it have anything to do with your eyes?"

You immediately looked away, lips twitching. "…maybe."

"Then it's something about death."

"…maybe."

"Hm." He hunched over even more. "You can predict deaths…eyes—"

The man snapped his fingers. You blinked at the action.

"Did that mean you could see the future, too?" His excitement picked up.

(Truthfully, you have not expected anything at all.)

(He will not get this answer from you. No one will…never again.)

"…maybe."

Technically, he was not wrong—but he was not right, either. Though, he had no need to know that, and you were in no state of urgency to inform him of that fact. Let him stew in his own false conclusions, let him deal with his own misled assumptions.

"It was her, wasn't it? It had to be. There's no other explanation. You said it yourself, before—if it wasn't for that woman, you wouldn't even have known about…about this. But, if you saw how everything ended," he puzzled, "there are other possibilities how our situation could have changed, with the way you've acted in the past three years."

"Maybe."

"It…it could've been everything you could've had."

"Maybe."

"But your family…that means you expected it."

"Maybe."

"Dawn." He warned.

"Lawliet." You shot back. He was already glaring.

(Truthfully, you do not want to know what to expect. Truthfully, neither does he—and he does not even realise it. And truthfully, you intend to keep it that way.)

You rolled your eyes when he stayed mum. "It's everything that nothing can change."

"Not now, not anymore. It's everything you destroyed, isn't it?"

"It's everything that can now never be." This time, it was you who stared off into nothing, but you were grinning, almost fond. Almost, if only that you felt like you were taunting yourself with your own amusement. You snickered. A taunt, in all honesty—you knew nothing about this was humorous, least of all to you. But his right eye twitched, and you smiled. "And what we'll never know."

"Indulge me, then." He shifted from his position. "Little Hound—that's how he called you, isn't it? Backup always did like poetic, violent things."

The man snorted, and you watched as a dark look passed over this face.

"Care to share a kill?" He challenged. "Care to confess one more secret?"

"Care to bare your throat to me, liar?" You breathed.

He thought he knew everything—that he solved this part of you. The great detective was still as childish as ever; unwilling to concede even when the answer he sought existed to be more incomprehensible than the adventure that went by, averse to losing because it equated to a mystery he would never fully disentangle. Though, in reality—what did either of you know? He had yet to unearth the full truth of the situation—and even then, you had not foreseen this much of a divergence from the story you once knew. You lived for the thrill as it eventually happened to you, yes. But that era of your life had passed. There was not much you could do to predict nor control what came after. The only thing left for you now was closure, and perhaps the bitter smiles that came with it. In the fullness of time, only the reminiscence mattered.

And finally, finally, it seemed that he had enough of your resistance in giving him answers.

Within seconds, without preamble, he lunged at you, either unminding or uncaring of the dust and snow staining your clothes when you were pushed flat onto the floor. You lied on the asphalt, midriff exposed when he moved. You tried to get your poet blouse back into place, making a sound of disapproval when the low temperature of the ground met your skin and jerked you into full awareness.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" You snarled as he shifted his legs to lock you into place.

His knees restricted your hips, and so you grabbed at his thighs, scratching at his jeans despite the uselessness of the action. When he simply grabbed a hold on one of your hands, you tried to claw at his face with the other. He skilfully caught that one as well, barely avoiding the swipe of your sharp nails by an inch. You grunted as he leaned his weight onto you, and you scowled.

"Lawliet, I will knee you in the dick—"

"Show me what Beyond saw."

He truly was finished with the teasing, you thought hysterically. You were grasping at straws and you did not know what to say. A lot weighed heavy on the edge of your tongue, and yet, like all the times before, you could not bring yourself to breathe them out from your lips. They were there, teasing as they hung from the edge of your teeth; like little ants heaving each other up as they climbed into the hole in their hill.

You were not so different from him in this—toying with him because you could, because you were amused—but unlike him, you actually enjoyed playing the fool.

(If only to ignore the urge to weep. If only to ignore your own mistakes. If only to ignore your own self-loathing.)

You could not even shake him off, not unless you genuinely wanted to risk him hitting the AC unit on your other side. You briefly considered it, before sighing in aggravation.

"You really think he knew everything?"

His eyes hardened.

("Like carbon and neptunite crystals—or a void swallowing every star in sight—")

"Yes."

"Unlikely."

"You're lying."

"Of course I am!" You laughed in his face, affronted. "Why would I tell you the truth?"

"Dawn. Your father's confession was evidence. That day in the cell was evidence. And Gevanni saw it for himself. Quite a convenient sequence of events we have here, don't we? Quite the perfect situation for a—"

"Maybe, but you don't deserve the whole of it. Not this time. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. The fucking case is over, and you can't make me do anything."

"I'll force it out of you."

"Can you, now?"

He ghosted a thumb across your bottom lip, thoughtful. You froze.

When you paid closer attention to what he did, you realised that he stroked it with the same pattern another had done, once. Only this time, there was a bit more force to the touch, and the finger was colder than you remembered it being. It burned in the way a memory can, in the way subconscious guilt liked to choke its victims. You hated this, and he understood it, and you both acknowledged that.

Yet still, another part of you craved it—this mockery of intimacy, this farce of amity. You were still grieving and he was taking advantage of this fact, and you realised that—but you both also knew that you would not truly be stopping him from doing so. It frustrated you, grated at every fibre of whatever of your dignity persisted, but you did it anyways. And yet…you did it, anyways.

(By every god there is, by every sin you commit, by all your miscalculations and misgivings; oh, you hate him.)

"Yes, I do believe I can."

And again, you gave in.

What the hell, you thought.

(You regret it.)

(But it is fun while it lasts.)