Today, sleep deserts you early; it's ten thirty when you find yourself blinking your eyes open. Even through the blackout curtains, the thin line of brightness traces its way around the far wall of the room, visible when you turn your head to look over at Ryuzaki. He's reading, shining his phone screen onto the pages to make up for the gloom, and you're struck by a sudden sense of amusement at the fact; something about the artificial replacement for the sun that's right outside, waiting in all its brilliance. You don't have to fake the smile you send his way and it infuses your tone.
"Good morning, Ryuzaki."
"Good morning, Light-kun."
Ryuzaki turns a page, still curled up under the covers, and as he answers you he glances up. "You're good at making speeches."
"Yeah, if I have to," you say easily, refusing to be thrown by the accusation. "What's the occasion?"
"This poem," Ryuzaki says. He hands the book across to you, and when you take it he says, "will you read it to me?"
You glance down. The poem is called, "My Friend."
Another obviously pointed move. "Sure," you say. "Why don't we open the curtains first though, so I can see what I'm doing?"
He gets up, and you slide over to his side of the bed and then off it as he walks to the windows. Grabbing the cord, he tugs, and the drapes slide away with a sudden smooth noise. The bright sky opens dazzlingly, and for a moment, you have to squint your eyes against the glare, everything washed out and shining. The poem is fairly long, written in English. The subtitle of the book, by Kahlil Gibran, is "his parables and poems." The title? The Madman. You look down and read in a foreign tongue, easily: "My friend, I am not what I seem. Seeming is but a garment I wear—a care-woven garment that protects me from thy questionings and thee from my negligence." A nod to the game you're playing with him. An answer to what you put in motion last night.
You look up at him between the lines, watch the way he's standing, still but for the toes of his bare feet brushing over each other, his hands in his pockets. His face is expressionless, and even his eyes are not as intense as they sometimes are, washed by the sun's rays into pebbled jet.
You continue. "The 'I' in me, my friend, dwells in the house of silence, and therein it shall remain for ever more, unperceived, unapproachable."
Even with you slowing down progress on the investigation, it's moving quickly. Sure, Ryuzaki's doing nothing, but then again, he knows who the ultimate culprit is. As for you, your list is steadily growing, and sooner or later, a pattern will become clear.
"I would not have thee believe in what I say nor trust in what I do—for my words are naught but thy own thoughts in sound and my deeds thy own hopes in action."
It continues. Each line a statement, definite and indefinite. An accusation without an accused.
When you finish reading, you hand the book back to Ryuzaki. He's been watching you along the way, and without a word puts the book back on his bedside table.
You go to your wardrobe. Today, you choose carefully; red isn't a color you wear often but today, the color of the sun will serve you well.
The task force may not be as smart as the two of you, but, barring Matsuda, they're no idiots. Even the snatches of conversation you'd caught from your father and Aizawa yesterday had been close to being on the right track. Eventually, if you aren't the one to point out the obvious, someone else will.
In the bathroom, you lean down to attach the strap around your feet, and Ryuzaki unhooks the handcuff from your wrist. You pull off your nightshirt. He reaches for the hand again, your left hand held wrist up. Turns the key.
Unlocks his own.
When thou sayest, "The wind bloweth eastward," I say, "Aye it doth blow eastward"; for I would not have thee know that my mind doth not dwell upon the wind but upon the sea.
"Do you want the soap?"
"Thanks."
Water covers the glass door in an artificial torrent. In the shower, you scrub your hair.
It beads your skin as you step out into the bathroom; the cool gust of the room; the glass is fogged; the spout, turned off, drips once or twice.
You pick up a towel, wrap it around yourself. At the sink, grab a can of shaving cream. Watch yourself in the mirror. When you turn on your electric razor, it cuts the stillness, buzzing in your hand.
In the old days, relationships between a priest or samurai and his younger male partner were not uncommon. The proper basis for a lifelong friendship; a mentor leading the way into adulthood. You can't say you cut quite the right figure, though you've tried to emphasize your warmth and loyalty for Ryuzaki. The wide-eyed expression you've affected. The genial demeanor.
There is always something alluring about innocence.
If you're the one to provide the breakthrough in the case, the task force will be ever more convinced that you're innocent, that you mean to catch Kira, and that you're their best hope of doing so.
You are not passive by nature. You know enough about yourself to be aware of that. In the proper scheme of things, it would've been Ryuzaki who pursued you, but you've had to push him at every turn. Still, everything hinges on technicalities. Especially games.
When you've toweled off and have put on your pants, you hook the strap around your feet again.
He takes the handcuff off your wrist, and you pull on your red shirt. The handcuff goes back on.
He kneels before you to pull the buckle. Takes the strap from around your feet. His hair still wet.
Thou canst not understand my seafaring thoughts, nor would I have thee understand. I would be at sea alone.
He knows, after all, that you're still working on the case.
In fact, you might even say he's purposely leaving it to you.
When it is day with thee, my friend, it is night with me; yet even then I speak of the noontide that dances upon the hills and of the purple shadow that steals its way across the valley; for thou canst not hear the songs of my darkness nor see my wings beating against the stars—and I fain would not have thee hear or see. I would be with night alone.
In the bedroom, you grab your watch from the table and wind it until it hits the stop, fastening it around your left wrist. The shatter-proof plexiglass surface shines. Eleven oh six.
In the kitchen, you heat up some soup.
"Would you like to go to the roof again this morning?" Ryuzaki asks. He places a cup of coffee in front of you and you put your hands around it, warming yourself and inhaling the strong aroma.
If he means to shake you with the question, he'll be disappointed.
"That would be great, yeah." You take a sip. Close your eyes.
On the roof, you stay by the door. Not venturing further than you had yesterday. There will be a day for such a thing. Now, it is still: ten minutes. Looking out.
The vastness of the sky is blinding.
When thou ascendest to thy Heaven I descend to my Hell—even then thou callest to me across the unbridgeable gulf, "My companion, my comrade," and I call back to thee, "My comrade, my companion"—for I would not have thee see my Hell. The flame would burn thy eyesight and the smoke would crowd thy nostrils. And I love my Hell too well to have thee visit it. I would be in Hell alone.
The handcuff presses gently against your left wrist. A clean, sharp cut. You breathe in new air, and exhale.
The elevator opens onto the lobby.
The glass stairs curve down into the main floor.
At the computer, you open a browser and your document of heart attack victims that haven't been categorized as Kira kills. Opening news sites, you scan through obituaries. Your third cup of coffee takes you through mid-afternoon, your fifth through early evening.
Thou lovest Truth and Beauty and Righteousness; and I for thy sake say it is well and seemly to love these things. But in my heart I laught at thy love. Yet I would not have thee see my laughter. I would laugh alone.
Ryuzaki is playing The Sims. "I see," he murmurs, sounding interested, and you glance over to see that one of his Sims has died. "I didn't know you could do that."
You roll your eyes and turn back to your list.
"Ooh, is that the Sims?" Matsuda asks, stopping his mad dash over to the stairs to glance at what Ryuzaki's doing. He has his phone by his ear, and something of Misa's piercing tone can be heard through it.
"Yes," Ryuzaki confirms. "Kira is dead." He gestures at the urn onscreen.
"Sorry," Matsuda says. Then he frowns. "Wait, should I be saying sorry? Is that a good thing? —okay Misa Misa, I'll be right there!" He dashes up the stairs.
You're standing at the coffee machine, and yawning as you wait for the water to heat.
"Long day?" Mogi asks, cup in hand.
"Mm."
"Me too." The police detective stands behind you when the water is hot, but you wave him ahead, and he fills his cup first.
My friend, thou art good and cautious and wise; nay, thou art perfect—and I, too, speak with thee wisely and cautiously. And yet I am mad. But I mask my madness. I would be mad alone.
At ten thirty Ryuzaki says, "upstairs, Light-kun?" He glances over at you. Watches for a second. Considering. Calculating. There's a question there; an option you aren't going to take.
My friend, thou art not my friend, but how shall I make thee understand? My path is not thy path, yet together we walk, hand in hand.
"Sure," you say. You smile, and he closes his game and stands up. You follow.
.
.
.