By Wednesday morning, you've figured out what you're going to do for the anniversary tomorrow. You've been wondering about it for the past few days, taking and discarding thoughts (a ticket to a tennis championship? Even if by some theoretical miracle, you found yourself able to tolerate a stadium's worth of space, you can't exactly picture the two of you, chains and all, sitting yourselves down in the baseline seats). And Ryuzaki is rich enough to buy anything he wants. He can build a skyscraper. He can build a secure sub-basement in his skyscraper just to hide his merchandise. (How long, exactly, has he been waiting for someone to push to see it? Probably this whole time. It takes dedication to be the complete troll he is.)
So not something to buy, then. Something to do.
And all of a sudden you know the perfect thing.
"Good morning, Light-kun," Ryuzaki says, hopping back onto the bed, the mattress jouncing under his weight.
"You're in a good mood," you tease.
"Does Light-kun have a reason why I shouldn't be?" he asks, widening his eyes dramatically.
"No," you say.
It's not like you can trust a single thing he says. But still, he's never before bothered to say that he doesn't want you dead.
And you believe it. Maybe you shouldn't. But you do.
"Good. Then he will not mind if we take today off." He flops down beside you and tucks his head against your chin.
"I don't mind, but don't you think we should wait on that till tomorrow?" you say.
Ryuzaki slips his thumb between his lips and gives you an innocent look. "Tomorrow?" he says.
"Yeah, tomorrow."
"Ah, I see. Light-kun is excited about the autumn equinox."
"You got me," you deadpan. "I've been waiting for it all year."
Ryuzaki grins.
/
You don't end up taking the day off, mostly because the case, and the fact that you have a new system to work on it, is still bugging you.
Since Monday, you've been using the Kira Program to look through all recorded heart attack deaths in Japan in the past eleven months. You have pages and pages of data recording non-criminals, because if the Third Kira is greedy or vengeful or thinks he's untouchable, he's going to have killed someone who can be traced back to him. Today you're searching for deaths in big businesses. There is no trail so easily followed as a money one.
It doesn't take much. In fact, before you've even really gotten started, you notice three very odd cases that stand out to you immediately in June and July, right when the Third Kira would've started out. Sekimaru Crop's VP of development, Tamiya Roppei, on June 27; AOI Industries' Director of Integrated Systems, Aoi Kouji, on July 2; and Yotsuba Vice-President, Moriya Takeyoshi, on July 30. You check the information on the stock exchange, looking over the span of time before and then during these deaths. All three companies had been neck-in-neck over the past few years, worth about 180 billion dollars each at the start of 2004. But starting in June, Yotsuba's stock has risen to 230 billion, while Sekimaru and AOI have tanked; tanked an incredible amount—AOI is even now declaring bankruptcy.
Surely it can't be this easy, you think.
"Man, this new program is great, but it's a pain to work with," Matsuda complains from the computer on the far left. He looks hopefully over at you. "Any luck, Light-kun?"
"Ah, no—not really—" you start, but he's getting up and wandering over, and the information on Yotsuba's stocks is right there on the screen. You toggle back to the Kira Program just as Matsuda stands next to you, and he looks at the top of your most recent search in the system and whistles.
"Don't be modest, Light-kun, you've got a new lead!" He points to the three deaths that had stood out to you.
Of all the moments for the man to show quick-thinking, why now?
"Not necessarily," you say. "Let's look into it a little more before we mention it, okay?"
"Yeah, sure, of course," Matsuda says. He leans his hand on the computer table and grins. "If you want I can check into what's going on in those companies; it's the kind of stuff I'd read about anyway."
"Uh… sure," you give him a smile. "That would be great."
/
Tomorrow. Today, now. The 23rd of September. You skip the roof, get on the elevator and go straight to the first basement, where you grab your racquets and start a modified game of tennis against the wall. You and Ryuzaki have decided to play a full match, best of three sets (each set is, of course, made up of six games). Unlike in a traditional game of tennis, there's no court to stay on your side of—it would be pointless, since, because of the chain, both you and Ryuzaki have to stay on the same side anyway.
The rule you and Ryuzaki have decided on as far as tennis goes is that using the chain to purposefully screw up someone's return is cheating; it would be a pretty boring game if all you ended up doing was tugging each other out of the way of the ball. So not only do you have to hit the ball into the wall at an angle, you have to run into position to return the serve just as though you were playing against yourself.
You use a racquet spin to decide who can choose the first serve; since there are no sides of the court the other player doesn't have that decision to make. When the racquet falls the way you called it and you get the choice of whether to serve or receive first, you go for serve. Since you know Ryuzaki is Kira, and Ryuzaki (probably) knows you know, and he's (probably) not trying to frame you anymore, you're no longer worried about acting "too much like Kira." There's just something satisfying about getting to be the one to make the first move, even though it will even out in the end, since which player gets the serve alternates by game.
For a while you're scored at 0-0, in a rally that lasts 19 shots before Ryuzaki misses by a hair's breadth. "15-love," you say smugly. But the next rally, a fast-paced one that lasts only three shots, ends in his favor. Now you're tied at 15-all, and the rest of the game is similarly close. It's almost an hour before you finish the first set with a tiebreaker, and move on to the next set; an hour and a half after that you finish the match with a victory by the skin of your teeth.
"Looks like I win," you say smugly, throwing your racquet back in the closet. At this point you've been playing for two and a half hours and it's taken its toll: it's been an unusually long game as far as tennis goes, though nowhere near a record. Just this summer in the French Open, Fabrice Santoro and Arnaud Clément played a game that was 6 hours and 33 seconds long, breaking the previous record for longest game by two seconds. It was on May 25th, actually; you'd spent most of the day in school and after that with the task force, dealing with the Second Kira messages, but since the match had lasted for two days, you'd been interested enough to beg your mom into taping the second part while you were away. The same evening, you'd met Misa for the first time, which ought to prove something about the balance of the universe and fun things being followed by terrible things, or whatever.
By the time you've gotten back up to your floor your nerves are starting to dance in relief, and when Ryuzaki says, "bath, I think," you just nod. Anything that involves not having to stand is good with you.
The warm water is exquisite. "I'm gonna stay here forever," you mumble.
"But I forgot my duck," Ryuzaki says. You consider the effort in lifting your hand enough to flip him off. It's almost too much, but Ryuzaki's worth it.
"Please, Light-kun?"
"You can take a bath without your duck just this once, Ryuzaki," you say, with your eyes closed.
"That is a crime," he replies, with dignity.
"It's not a crime. I'm the winner, and I say so."
"Then Light-kun is a tyrant," Ryuzaki says, sending a sudden wave toward you. You sputter, open your eyes and glare at him, but Ryuzaki's already sunk under the water, conveniently out of range for any sort of retaliation.
Today, on the autumnal equinox, day and night are of equal lengths. It's the first day of fall.
Without going onto the roof you can't know what it feels like outside, but the sun that comes through the windows is bright and warm, as though in defiance of the change of seasons.
Ryuzaki pulls the curtains open in your bedroom, and you both hole up there with food and tea. Ryuzaki is attempting to eat rødgrød, a Danish pudding dish made of red berries and cream, without spilling any of it on the bed. The key word here being "attempting."
Somehow, he never manages to spill it on himself, but the sheets around him have already been stained twice.
"We're going to have to bleach this," you say.
He glances down, and shrugs. "That's what white sheets are for."
"For being a heathen and eating on the bed?"
"Mm. Yes, exactly." He picks up a spoonful of the berries and holds it out toward you. "You should try it."
"I don't like sweet things."
"It's not that sweet."
"Oh, sure, in your opinion," you laugh. "How many sugar cubes do you put in your coffee?"
"No, it's not that sweet objectively. It's tart. It's got cream in it."
"That doesn't make it sound more interesting."
"Light-kun won't try even a little bitty taste?"
"Why should I?" you ask, but you're grinning at him.
"Because I say so," Ryuzaki explains.
"Oh, in that case."
He waves the spoon in your direction, and another splash of berry juice lands on the bed. "I won't give up," he warns.
"Fine, just stop waving it around," you say. He stops, with the spoon hovering in the air near your lips. You open your mouth and try the spoonful. "Mm," you say, thoughtfully.
"Mm? Is it good?"
"It's not bad," you say. "A little sweet, but not bad. Let me have another spoon with more of the cream in it."
Ryuzaki dips his spoon back in the bowl, this time taking care to fill it exactly halfway with berries and halfway with cream. He holds it out again, and you take another bite.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yeah, a lot."
Ryuzaki smiles, looking satisfied.
/
It's almost six o'clock now, and only the very last of the sunset is still in the sky, everything deepening into twilight.
"I notice Light-kun has very patiently not asked about his gift yet," Ryuzaki says.
"That's me," you say, "patience is my middle name."
"No it's not," Ryuzaki says.
"Figuratively," you stress.
"Not even figuratively."
You roll your eyes. "Anyway," you say. "I'd love to get my present. Do you want yours?"
Ryuzaki's eyes widen. His thumb stops its back and forth press, and he leans forward, practically vibrating. "I have a gift?"
"Yeah, you do. We'll have to get up though."
Ryuzaki throws himself off the bed and stands impatiently, waving his hands around and almost bouncing with sudden energy. It's such a difference from his usual laid-back demeanour that you stifle a smile.
"You're excited," you say, following him off the bed.
"Of course I'm excited, Light-kun," he says in an upbeat tone. "Whatever this gift is, I haven't seen it even once or suspected its existence, which means you've managed to hide the entire process. When did you get it? Where did you hide it? How did you plan it? Tell me everything."
"I already had it, I'm hiding it in plain sight, and if I told you how I planned it it would spoil the surprise."
Ryuzaki frowns thoughtfully, already trying to puzzle that one out, but is driven from his thoughts when you kneel down in front of him. Right here is as good as anywhere.
Ryuzaki sticks his hands in his pockets and tilts his head, looking at you quizzically.
You take a deep breath. You've been planning this. You can do this. You're capable—and yet, for a moment, you find yourself completely frozen. You breathe out, force yourself not to think… not about whether this was a good idea or what it will be like, but only to move. You reach out; drag the edge of one nail across his ankle, and Ryuzaki lets out a shaking breath. You brush your fingers across the smooth skin, dragging it down over his foot, which is cold under your fingertips, bracingly so.
"Light," Ryuzaki says, quietly, and you look up; his face is flushed pink, visible even in the growing gloom, and you feel a sudden pride that warms itself in your veins; a power, something heady and sweet. You can spare him kindness if it means he will look so dissolved, as if without more than a touch you could break him, careful, above you.
"L," you say, letting the English letter, strange and exotic, slide across your lips.
He spares a moment to walk toward the edge of the bed and sink down onto it, with his feet touching the floor; he faces you now sitting, but still looks like he might at any moment fall, completely boneless. He reaches out, grabs a clump of your hair, and seems to use that to steady himself against you, his head bending down so that, for a moment, you are enclosed within a basket made of his arms. You wait, and L leans back, something bright and strange quickly hidden behind his lens-like eyes; and for a moment you wonder if you'd seen it at all, or merely caught the reflection of whatever had sparked against its surface.
You lean down again, this time further; when your lips are close enough to brush against his skin you press your tongue against it, the cold, smooth surface, the faint tang of sweat. His toes are clean, and you imagine that you can still taste water and fresh sheets; only a small line of dirt caught under the nails. You pay attention not to that but to the sounds he makes; slow, caught breath; the minute twitches and movements as he curls himself toward you, his toes catching on your lip and teeth. You scrape across the skin for a second, teasing the possibility of biting down, of putting bloody red moons into him; a sheathed violence. Nothing, instead, but that brush and the faintest pressure, and then your tongue, touching each inch of first one foot, then the other.
Even as Ryuzaki's plaything, you'd been afraid the situation might be unpleasant. You can distinctly recall how humiliated you'd felt as he forced you down—but this, this is anything but. The rush that's surging through you almost makes your hands tremble, it sings so brightly; you feel like you could create, destroy, do whatever you please to him without opposition. The fact that he'd been so surprised; that you'd caught him off guard and he is helpless; oh not truly but it feels that way. It feels.
When at last you're done L tugs you upward and you lie next to him as he collapses onto the bed, and presses himself against you in a full-body hug, as tight as though he never wanted to let go. He meets your eyes and you see they're shining again, wet; you didn't mean to bring Ryuzaki to tears. He must see something uncomfortable in your expression—the subtle flash of annoyance that anyone crying in front of you gets (Ryuzaki is not immune to this)—because he laughs softly, and gives you a chiding look.
"Light," he says. "Just because I appreciated your gesture doesn't mean I suddenly lost my wits."
You smile insincerely. "I didn't think that," you lie.
"M-hm," Ryuzaki says, agreeing, in a way that implies the exact opposite. But you find yourself mollified. The game's not over—it's nowhere near over.
No matter what you might fear, you think, he will always manage to keep you interested, invested, even happy. He understands the boredom; and not only can he keep up with you but he wants to. He wants you, as his plaything, forever.
He wants to, even knowing what you are. You don't have to pretend. (You do, anyway, but that's just out of habit. There's something comforting in knowing he sees right through it.)
I'm yours, you'd told him, planning to make sure that he'd never consider killing you. It had been as true as it needed to be, then.
But now, you think to him, I will be loyal to you.
And it is a promise.
.
.
.