On Sunday you don't go downstairs at all. For the third day in a row you put on the corset, without saying a thing to Ryuzaki about it; and he, in turn, doesn't mention that you've worn it every day since Friday. On top of it you wear a white button-up shirt in a cotton so fine it glides under your thumb, and folds instead of wrinkles. It is the kind of shirt you should wear with cufflinks under a suit, because Ryuzaki knows quality, just not when it applies to him. He buys his clothes from a chain store, though he has enough money to tailor everything he could ever want.

But he is perverse that way. Always doing the opposite of what he ought to, as though it gives him a distinct pleasure to revel in other people's discomfort. You wonder what it would be like to be able to revel in that, instead of feeling pinned to a board, dissected and flayed apart by the force of every single person who has been unable to understand why you ever did what you did. You think that it would be worse than death.

"Ryuzaki?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you always wear the same pair of clothes?"

"I don't always wear the same pair of clothes," Ryuzaki says. "Light-kun has forgotten that I have an entire wardrobe filled with clothes."

"I meant the same style of clothes," you explain, patiently.

"Oh," Ryuzaki says. "Why didn't you say that?"

You glance over at him, though you don't need to. You can already tell from the disaffected tone of his voice that it's a real question, and the lack of his wide-eyed acting cinches it. "Sorry," you add, politely, and he shrugs.

"I guess it's because it makes me comfortable," he says.

"How?"

Ryuzaki studies you for a moment, pressing his finger against his lip. For a second, you see the glimpse of teeth against the pad of his thumb, and you remember last night. Neither of you had talked about it then, and you don't talk about it now either, but you have a feeling he must be satisfied with what he got. He's the one who started it, after all; taking your bloodied finger on the roof and pressing it into his saliva-filled mouth. You've gotten so good at giving Ryuzaki what he wants that you can do it instinctively, and this is something to be proud of when the bastard is so cagey that he might be made of fences. You smile at him, and his brow furrows momentarily, as though he is confused. He's always confused at something though, so you don't worry about it.

"I like the way they feel," he says, at last. "I like the way they sit on me, and the way the seams line up. I like that the jeans are soft and have pockets in them, because pockets are useful."

You laugh, and he smiles, quickly, like a flash of something brilliant. "I like the way I never have to think about what I'm going to wear," he says. "Thinking about what to wear in the morning decreases my reasoning ability by 36 percent."

"Really?" you say, raising an eyebrow. "It takes that much effort just to come up with an outfit?"

"Yes," Ryuzaki says.

"Have you ever worn anything else?"

"Of course. There were plenty of cases where I had to put on a certain persona that jeans and a t-shirt wouldn't work with, but fortunately jeans and a t-shirt are very versatile."

"Well, that's one word for it."

"And what would you call your collection of khakis in fifteen different shades of beige?"

"Excuse me? I don't have fifteen shades of beige."

"It's no use trying to lie, Light-kun," Ryuzaki intones. "I've seen the evidence."

"Okay," you say, shoving him, "for your information, there's only ten, and some of those pants are brown and cream, and one is definitely more like an olive green."

"I'm utterly fascinated," Ryuzaki says drily.

"You asked, you have to suffer the consequences."

He makes an assenting noise and then says, "you like clothes, don't you?"

"Is that supposed to be insulting?"

"No," Ryuzaki says. "It's just an observation. I think you look good in clothes, in case you were wondering."

You snort. "You think I look good out of clothes."

Ryuzaki presses a hand fervently to his chest. "Ah, you've figured out my secret," he says in dramatic tones. "It's all Light-kun's fault and not the clothes at all."

"One of us has to pick up the slack," you say.

"Or the slacks," Ryuzaki agrees.

You groan. "You're terrible. Seriously. I don't know why I even keep you around."

"To admire your good looks?"

"Yeah, it must be that," you say.

You make breakfast, and patiently pester Ryuzaki into eating half of it while he draws pictures with the coffee-dipped tip of his spoon into the well of his saucer. After that, Ryuzaki announces thoughtfully, "I should like to take some pictures."

"All right," you say.

"Would Light-kun want to pose for a photoshoot?"

"What," you ask, with a disbelieving laugh, "you want to take photos of me?"

"Why not?"

You think for a moment, and then shrug. "Sure, I guess." When Ryuzaki gets something into his head, he's unstoppable. And, you're kind of curious to see whatever he would get of you, although you're not exactly confident in his technique, having seen picture after picture of nothing but empty sky that he seemed extraordinarily pleased by, for some daft reason. But you look good at any angle, so you're not too worried.

He fetches his camera, and then drags you into the bathroom to grab the strap for your feet. "It's easier to take pictures if I can stand back," he explains, and yeah, you can see how the chain might ruin some poses, though you're not exactly sure that a strap around your feet will look any better. But you go over to the windows in the main room, the curtains pulled wide to expose the sun, and when you're against the glass in a way that he seems happy with, you reach down to thread it closed around your ankles, and he pulls out the key to unlock the cuff from your wrist. It falls to the floor with a clatter, and Ryuzaki tucks the key back into his pocket without bothering to undo his end, peering through the viewfinder. He's generally quiet, only occasionally murmuring directions to turn this way or that, look up or down, and once to unbutton the top buttons of your shirt to look slightly more casual. You do standing poses and then some sitting, and you hope he's keeping your socked feet out of the shot, because whatever suave effect you could possibly create, that would ruin it. But considering his obvious foot fetish, you'll be lucky if there aren't ten different shots of your ankles alone. You smirk a little at the thought, and he snaps another photo and hums in seeming satisfaction.

"Can I see them?" you ask, when he's done and reattaches the handcuff, but he turns the camera off and holds it away from you.

"You're so impatient, Light-kun. I can print them, and they'll look much better."

"It's not going to improve on your shitty composition, Ryuzaki," you complain, grabbing for the camera. "Just let me see it!"

"No."

You frown at him.

"It will be more impressive if they're printed," Ryuzaki says, and finally you raise your hands in defeat.

"Okay, whatever," you say. So you follow him back into the bedroom and wait while he turns his computer away from you and plugs it in, loading the photos onto his laptop and sending them wirelessly to one of the printers.

After a second, you say, "wait, you're not printing this from the main floor, are you?"

"Why not?"

You gape at him. "Why not? Ryuzaki, anyone from the task force could see that."

"They won't, I have Watari on it, he's waiting by the printer," Ryuzaki says.

"That is so not better."

"It is better," Ryuzaki says. "Watari knows far more sensitive secrets than that I enjoy taking photos as a hobby."

"Yeah, but he doesn't need to know about me," you complain. But you're a little mollified. Watari is discreet, and the truth is, if there really are hidden cameras on this floor or at least bugs, he's seen and heard far worse. And the man is completely devoted to Ryuzaki. He won't ruin anything by siding against you.

It's not that long before Ryuzaki announces that the deed is done—Watari's gotten the photos and slipped them onto the table in the hall. He's gone, and the door is closed, by the time you get there, and Ryuzaki reaches for the stack eagerly, but you push his hand away. "I've waited enough to see this," you say, taking the pictures yourself. There's a good stack, printed eight by nine—crime scene sizing. You and Ryuzaki go back into the main room and sit on the couch as you look through the images. They're better than you'd expected, and you find yourself wondering if Ryuzaki actually wasn't kidding about this being a hobby of his. Some photos show you standing against what seems to be clear sky, with your back against the glare, putting everything but a thin line shining against your hair into shadow. In others, you can see the window's reflective surface, as though to break up what would otherwise have been a standard portraiture shot. He knows how to deal with chiaroscuro, but he also knows how to soften the harshness of the sun if he needs to. There are a couple of pictures where, with you sitting casually against the ground, the folds in your shirt look almost sculptural and everything about your expression is aetherial, and you know that he's caught everything about how you want to be seen; there are others that are more moody, that might almost seem unsettling and strangely sad if you didn't know better. In most of them, he keeps the strap out of the frame, but there are one or two full-body shots where you can see the leather wrapped against your ankles; and you'd been afraid it would make you look less than regal, but it doesn't, somehow.

In and among these carefully constructed shots are a few that seem more candid; ones taken while he was telling you to move this way and that, where you're blurry and out of focus. You don't know why he'd bothered until you see one where you're smiling, as though to a private secret; and despite the gauzy surroundings, you look almost dangerous. He takes that photo and holds it. "This one is my favorite," he says, looking at it with a careful kind of awe.

Of course it would be.

You glance down at the few photos that are left. Oh yeah, here it is. "Are you sure these aren't your favorite?" you ask nonchalantly, and Ryuzaki glances down and then smiles as you show him six pictures in a row of nothing but your feet. You hand them to him. "Seriously, just keep it, I don't need to know what you do with it."

Ryuzaki laughs, quietly. "Should I hide in the bathroom then, or just blindfold you?"

"I'd still know," you say, with a groan. "Just jerk off here, it's not like I care."

"I wasn't planning to," Ryuzaki says. "But, if you're serious…"

You shrug. After a moment, he reaches down to unzip his jeans, touching himself through the fabric of his boxers. You put the stack of photos onto the coffee table, except the few Ryuzaki had claimed for himself which still sit between the two of you on the cushions. You figure it would be polite to give him a little space, so you lean back on the couch and look vaguely toward the far wall, trying to ignore him.

Of course, it's not like 'a little space' means anything when you're always in a six-foot orbit, and he's jacking off to pictures of your feet.

You're bored.

You glance over at him; he's still focused on the pictures but you figure you could probably make this whole thing a little more interesting. Very idly, you turn around on the couch, bringing your knees up to your chest in the way Ryuzaki usually does, so your socked feet are resting on the cushions, your toes almost touching the topmost photo. He's noticed you; you can tell by the minute catch in his breath, although you're carefully not looking at him. You nonchalantly pull off first one sock and then the other, throwing them onto the ground, and then pick up the edge of one of the photos between your toes and brush it off the side of the couch. You glance up at him to see him smiling. "Hello, Light-kun," he says.

"Hey, Ryuzaki," you say. As though you'd just happened to run into him somewhere.

He continues to touch himself, and you keep your feet on the couch until he's finished. Then you lean down and gather up the spilled photos. Six pictures of feet, and one picture of you smiling to yourself, as though you had a secret. You shake your head as you place them on the coffee table, and then grab your socks, putting them back on. Ryuzaki stands up and tugs the chain, and you follow him into your room so he can grab another pair of boxers, and then into the bathroom to change.

"Are you attracted to me?" you ask. Ryuzaki throws his messed up pair of boxers into a pile on the floor, and glances over at you.

"Sure," he says.

"I'm being serious," you say, and after a moment, as he pulls on his pants again, he shrugs.

"No, not really," he says.

"That's what I thought," you say. "Are you attracted to anybody?"

"You mean Misa-san?"

You shrug.

"No," he says. "I'm like you that way, Light-kun. I just don't feel like that when I see people. Well," he amends. "Unless it's their feet…"

You laugh. "Yeah, I gathered that."

"And I thought I was being discreet," Ryuzaki says with dry humor.

"What was it, about that footage?" you ask, and don't bother to define which footage you mean.

"You had it about right," he says. "The fact that people couldn't stop me. Didn't know what I was doing. That it was humiliating for them. That I felt powerful. There's a kind of situation that I find very arousing, especially when intelligent people are in them."

"Intelligent people… is that your requirement?"

"What, are you worried you won't measure up?" Ryuzaki says.

You give him an unimpressed glare, and he looks back at you innocently.

"Surely you've got to account for beauty, too, though," you say.

"I don't know a thing about beauty," Ryuzaki says after a moment, looking a little pensive. "It's always been other things that interest me. I know that must be a terrible disappointment to you."

"But those photographs—"

"Well, if they were beautiful, that's only because you're good at that," Ryuzaki says. "Art is the craft of making underhanded statements. 'Tell all the truth but tell it slant—' or, in other words, lie to suit your audience. It's about people, not beauty or ugliness."

"I can't help being naturally good looking," you say.

"No, you only keep up a perfect skin-care regime every morning."

"It's scary that you think the only reason to be hygienic is for vanity," you say.

"Yes, I've been told that," Ryuzaki says.

"And I can see it made a big impression."

"M-hm. So do you care about beauty, Light-kun?"

"Of course," you say. "Most people enjoy beauty. It's a natural human impulse."

"I'm not talking about enjoying a quiet flowing stream," Ryuzaki says.

"Yeah? What are you talking about?"

"People," Ryuzaki says. "In arousing situations. Do they have to be beautiful for you to feel something?"

"Well it's not like I enjoy ugliness," you retort.

"Do you really, Light-kun?"

You look at him for a long moment. His black-hole eyes are very knowing.

Finally, you say, "So many people in the world are beautiful."

"Too dull for you?" he asks.

"I guess," you say. "There's nothing mysterious about beauty. And nothing terrifying. Not like monsters," you say. It's quite true, although until this very moment, you'd never quite had the words. To think the scope of your fascination could so easily be condensed like this. Ryuzaki seems to shiver, and he wets the tip of his lip with his tongue. You wonder if something about what you just admitted was an arousing situation.

You wonder what he's imagining, now.

"Light-kun," he says, almost wistfully. "If you enjoyed sex…"

"I could—"

"No," Ryuzaki says firmly. He shakes his head.

"But I could—"

"In a fantasy, you enjoy it," he says. "Or, if you aren't enjoying it, that's the point. It's a different kind of game. There's nothing interesting about someone fucking you out of duty."

"I wouldn't do that," you say, miffed.

"Or to manipulate you," Ryuzaki adds, and you glare at him.

"You just love to never give me what I want," you say.

"Oh, so now you want to have sex with me?" he says.

"I just want you to— to—"

"Give in?"

You look away from him and cross your arms.

"I can't do that, Light," he says. L reaches toward you, and after a moment, you allow him to take your hand, to tug you out of the bathroom.

"L," you say, and he looks over at you curiously. "There are arousing situations for me, too."

"Is that so?"

You nod. For some reason, your mouth is dry; you feel strangely like you're standing before a door, pressing the key against your hand while he waits, patiently. He probably knows this already, so it's not as though you're baring some sort of secret.

But you've never talked about it.

"Sometimes, being… captured, and, humiliated, and…"

"And?"

"Looked at," you say.

"Yes," he says.

He knows. Of course he does.

You feel relieved, infinitesimally.

"But," L says, "it doesn't have to be sexual. There are so many ways to enjoy fear and power. Endorphins, adrenaline, the cocktail of neurochemicals firing into your brain… who decided on sexual supremacy, when there are so many modes of intensity and pleasure in the world?"

You watch him; and his hand, still on yours, is dry and hot, a grip so strong it would take a struggle to pull away from.

"Light?"

"Yes?"

He says nothing. But just looks at you, and for a moment you are thrilled and afraid by the thought that his black-hole eyes might never release you again. You sink down to your knees in front of him, and his grip on your hand loosens as you move, letting go. You are still looking, now up at him, and he runs his fingers through your hair, messing it, his palm against the curve of your skull.

"Good boy," L says, and you swallow back a spike of shame that pulls its way through your stomach like a bite, leaving you tingling and cold.

You try to look away from him, but he captures the side of your face with his hand, holding you still, and you let out a breath.

"Count the links," he says.

"What?"

He sits down in front of you, lotus-position as though he is getting ready to meditate, picks the chain up between two hands, and shows you.

So you start. From the one against your left wrist, you count. "One… two… three…"

"Louder," he says, and your face burns. You hate being interrupted. Contradicted. Being told you aren't doing something good enough.

L knows it.

You start again from the beginning, just to spite him. "One… two… three…" you speak with vicious pointedness, drawing out the words. "Four… five… six…" the chain is long, and even as you snarl "fifteen," you know that you're nowhere near finished. Anger can take you through the beginning of something, but it's decisions and vows that have to keep you going in the long run. You wonder what it was that led L to become Kira, if it was anger or fear or just boredom as you'd supposed. If it was you, you know it would have been anger. Anger at the world, which runs deep beneath your skin, a constant, tiring flood. To pretend is to forget, until you've fooled even yourself; the endless monotony of days when you had been just a kid in school, powerless to change the world; and you'd told yourself it didn't matter, until you barely felt yourself going through the constant motions. Here, now, you feel grounded, and your anger is real, and called upon, and when you say "34, 35, 36," you are saying I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

You hate him because he can take it, and because, out of the whole terrible world, he is asking for it. Because his favorite picture was the one where you smiled like you had a secret. Because he trapped you, and unmade you, and took away your name by increments until you surrendered yourself willingly, and because he will not let you win.

To keep your place, you have to keep one hand in the gap of the link before while you count the next one. End over end.

It's been a fixture of your life since you got out of confinement, but it's weird to realize how much attention you haven't paid to it. How many fucking links are there?

You don't know, but it seems to keep on going forever. Even as you pull the chain, there's always more laid out in a heavy loop over his thighs. "41, 42, 43…" what if you drop it, or lose your spot? Will he make you do the whole thing again?

(This is L. Of course he would.)

"59, 60. 61, 62, 63…" he doesn't speak, except the occasional "louder" if you've started speaking too quietly for his tastes. Your hands are sweaty against the cool metal, slippery, and he doesn't move; the chain you've already counted piles up against you. Your arms are aching, dully, at the constant motion of holding up, before you, the chain; one link after another.

"79, 80." You take a shaking breath, falling silent for barely a moment while you try to process what's left—you're almost there. It's got to be done soon—

"Keep going, Light. I didn't say you could stop."

You glare at him, but your lips form around "81," as though you couldn't do anything but obey. "82, 83… 84, 85… 86… 87." Your hands pause at his cuff, at his right hand, where the chain meets the circlet around his wrist. For a second, all you can do is stare at it blankly. Is it done?

"87," you say again, quieter. "There's 87 links in the chain."

"That's right," L says. "You should remember that, Light. 87 links, and each one is a reason that you belong to me in 317L, marine-grade steel."

You laugh, and he smiles back at you as the tension shakes its way out of your limbs. You can't stop laughing, but it's okay, because you can clutch onto the fabric of his jeans and wait while the wildness inside you pushes out into gasping laughter, into something that twists your stomach sick, and you don't need to portray the right thing and you don't need to feel it, either.

"You had it made in 317L just so you could have your name in it, didn't you," you say at last, still chuckling. With the amount the chain is exposed to water, grade 317, with its high corrosion resistance as well as its tensile strength was the obvious choice. The differences between an ordinary 317 grade and 317L exist, but they aren't so much that it would necessarily preclude the use of the other for handcuffs like these.

"Yes," he agrees, with a smirk. "You're welcome to remember that, too, along with the number."

You groan. "Ryuzaki, you are such a geek."

.

.

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