In the morning, Ryuzaki is uncommunicative.
But as you carefully unscrew a jar of face cream you're not paying attention to that, already thinking through a new idea for looking at the Kira numbers. Even with the program, there's plenty of deaths that take a few days or even a week to be added, and oftentimes what's in print is more up to date. Perhaps you'll page through some of the lists, sift through stacks of newspapers.
Ryuzaki lags behind you as you exit the bathroom, and when he swings the door shut between you you aren't fast enough to respond, rattling the handle when the door's already locked, the chain snaking through the thin gap under the bathroom door where… there had definitely been moulding before. You remember. You distinctly remember that the door had gone down flush to the moulding, because you'd been glad that meant he couldn't pull this trick like he had in the hotel. He's had someone, probably Watari, come in while you were working one day and pull the damn thing out.
"Ryuzaki, you bastard, what are you thinking?"
No answer.
You press your free hand against the door. The six-foot chain is long enough to travel under the door, and presumably L is crouching on the ground, but that doesn't leave your left hand any room, being tugged down on. You can't go a step away from the door.
"You're going to have to move at some point," you warn. "Anyway, we haven't even had coffee yet. Seriously Ryuzaki, stop being such a child."
What could possibly have caused this tantrum?
Suddenly you remember. Last night. 'I'm tired of being sociable' he had said, and 'I'm tired of being a person.' Evidently he was being serious.
You think about cursing him out, but it's too much effort. Your anger is already drowning sluggishly under the lack of response, the cold, empty air.
It's still August in Tokyo, but inside this soundproofed, temperature-controlled building, it could be any place and any time at all.
The shades are open, but only a crack, leaving most of the bedroom in a pervading gloom; still, it's better than having to stare at that endless expanse of sky. You sink onto the floor, lean your back against the wall.
The thin fingers of boredom, sharp-nailed, scratch and crawl along the corners of your mind. Your watch is still on the bedside table, and the passage of time is unsegmented, a long void. It's not so different from confinement. But it won't last. If only because Ryuzaki will need to move at some point. Need to use the bathroom or to eat. And he'll have to open the door in order to move.
A querulous hunger nibbles along the seam of your stomach. You ignore it until it subsides; ignore, also, the building headache that presses against the inside of your skull. The chain is jingling faintly, and at first you think Ryuzaki is fidgeting on the other side of the door, but when you look down, it's your own hands trembling in your lap. The sun has passed through its phase of brightness; it must have risen over the skyscraper and be on the other side of the building by now, which means it's after one at least. Surely everyone will wonder where you are.
But no. It's Saturday. Most of the task force will be at home, and even if they're here, they won't wonder if you and Ryuzaki fail to show up.
At least not enough to search for you.
After all, what could be wrong?
The hunger in your stomach is twisting into an acidic lump.
Damn it. Nothing's wrong. Ryuzaki's just being an asshole, but what's new there? You can handle it. It's practically your specialty.
You take a long, ragged breath into your lungs. Then out, slowly. The autonomic nervous system has two modes—sympathetic and parasympathetic. Both exert control over the heart, with the sympathetic, "fight or flight" mode with its fast heart-rate useful for a stressful situation or for strenuous exercise, while the parasympathetic mode is slower, restful, and appropriate for relaxation. Breathing slowly and deeply helps the parasympathetic mode attain dominance.
You take another breath. In for three counts. Out for seven.
This really isn't that different from confinement. It's not so bad, really. You've been missing it, even, haven't you?
Peacefulness. Silence.
No one to have to interact with. No one to pretend for.
Your eyes flutter closed; you slip in and out of a vague, dozing state; aware in increments of the room growing darker over time as the shadows slip like grey things over the whole expanse.
A tug on the chain wakes you and you blink, muggy and off-kilter as the door swings open. Ryuzaki pulls you inside, and you look at him questioningly.
"I need to use the bathroom," he says. "If you want to also, now's the time."
"Don't tell me you're planning to stay in here," you complain, startled into alertness.
"The sooner I get this over with the sooner we can go back to normal," Ryuzaki explains, in a slow, patient tone, as though you're an idiot. He wanders over to the toilet as he speaks, unzips his pants, and you face away from him, still arguing.
"Get what over with? Your need to torture me?"
"Do you ever get tired of thinking the whole world revolves around you, Light?"
"Then what is it about, huh?"
No answer for a minute. Presumably, Ryuzaki is thinking as he uses the toilet. Or just ignoring you again.
At last he steps aside, and you stand in front of it to take your turn.
Ryuzaki leans against the counter.
"It's just… too much. I need space. I don't know how to explain it, everything gets… it gets so…" for words to fail the usually-eloquent Ryuzaki is a surprise.
As you both walk over to the left-hand sink, you turn on the water. You both reach for the soap; grab it at the same time, feel it slide between your hands, fall back into the soap tray, then your hands are under the water; Ryuzaki's still dripping with soap bubbles; he scratches a nail around the side of the sink, back and forth with a quick, sharp motion.
"It isn't negotiable," he says at last, dully.
You turn to look at him, drying off your hands. He's chewing on his bottom lip; a bright bead of blood wells up.
You've always thought, ever since you met him, that he looked soft. Soft and vacant, you'd thought; but you're not sure now what you were thinking, because he's nothing but angles.
"Look, I get that you have issues," you say curtly. He laughs, a short, sharp hah that sounds more like someone playing at laughter than any true expression of emotion. "But fucking talk to me. I've been sitting out there with nothing to do all day—"
"That's what I'm doing," Ryuzaki says shortly. He's washed his hands now; quick, careless motions; one arm has reached as though to grasp his knee but he's standing, he can't; he stops the aborted motion in surprise, instead brings his left arm behind his back, grabs his other arm with that hand. It looks twisted, uncomfortable, but it seems to satisfy him. "I'm talking. To you. Okay?" he spits out.
"Okay. Fine. So give me something," you say. "Compromise."
"I need to stay in here longer," he says.
"I need something to eat," you say. "I need coffee too. I'll take instant if you don't want to wait, if you've got any. I want something to do. Your laptop, a book, whatever."
"Book," Ryuzaki says, looking down at his bare feet.
"Okay. Library then?"
He nods.
His toes are brushing over each other. One foot, then the other. A little pattern. You drag him out of it towards the kitchen and grab what you can as quickly as possible. He doesn't have any instant coffee, and by the time it's done percolating, he's in even more of a prickly mood, glaring daggers at you and hitting the side of his arm against his leg. Thud. Thud. Thud. It makes you want to punch him, but you're aware that would probably only make things worse.
You don't bother asking if he wants a cup, just stick one in front of him. He can take it if he wants.
He does.
You're in the library, poking through books and trying to ignore him, when you hear a muffled, "thanks."
You turn around.
Ryuzaki has his coffee cup between both hands, staring into it; you realize all of a sudden that you'd forgotten to add sugar into his, and consequently, he's done nothing but sip a little, screwing up his face at the bitter taste.
"What for?" you ask, struck with the absurd urge to apologize as he tilts the cup minisculely, letting the tiniest bit of coffee onto his tongue before lowering it in front of his chest.
He doesn't answer.
You grab your pile of books, and taking that as his cue, he walks back over to the bathroom, stepping inside and locking the door between you again.
You sit down.
Lean against the door.
/
This is Saturday.
And Sunday.
On Monday morning, Ryuzaki says, twisting the edge of his sleeve between two fingers, "Light-kun, I would like one last day to myself. I know it's an imposition."
"It's no problem, Ryuzaki," you say.
He's being polite again. That has to be a good sign.
Anyway. What are you supposed to say? 'No way, Ryuzaki'? Drag him bodily to the main floor, so he can have a breakdown in front of everyone and make you look bad by extension? Like this you can both save face, so there's no other answer you can possibly give. Yesterday the thought had exhausted you, but today you feel a thin flicker of something dark and giddy, like triumph. You have him. You've gotten closer than he wants to allow anyone—you both know it; and now he needs you. He needs you to say 'It's no problem Ryuzaki' because if you didn't you could drag him downstairs and damn the consequences. And so he needs to ask, abashed, for something as simple as a little time to himself.
(It's the same in reverse, but that's only to be expected. You're his prisoner. By choice, perhaps; by the long-ago version of you that had weighed his options and decided to put himself into confinement, to put himself at L's mercy.)
He grabs his computer today, takes it in the bathroom with him, and you can hear intermittent typing, on and off, the quiet click of keys. You page through your books until the words drift away from you into the spaces of the in-between world where thoughts can't follow, and resolve yourself to the uncertainty, the sliding. You have your watch on your left wrist, sitting comfortably against the handcuff, and behind its plexiglass surface the clockwork hands in their spheres measure out the day. You have a cup of coffee beside you, and a whole pile of books; you turn the cup in a circle and watch the reflections on its dark surface, a sliver of something unique amid the familiar. Brilliance flickers across the edge of the liquid, like fire; you bring it to your mouth and drink.
.
.
.