You haven't forgotten your own present. It turns out to be in Ryuzaki's bedside table, in a flat black box that he pulls out and hands to you. It's taped shut. And not in the way a box is usually taped shut, with one piece on each side. No, this has long strips of tape going along the entire edge of it, as though whoever taped it down had wanted to cause nothing but pain and suffering to whoever had to open it.
"Let me guess," you say drily, "you packed this?"
"I had to make sure it was secure," Ryuzaki says, giving you an innocent look.
You slide your nails around the lip of the box, until you can score a line through the tape. This takes some time, and when at last you manage to open the box and look inside, you see another box, only slightly smaller. You look up and give Ryuzaki a flat glare, and he just shrugs. You pull out the second box—also a plain black, it's just as over-taped. Painstakingly, you peel the tape away from the edge, enough to pull off the cover, fearing to see yet another box—but instead there's only something wrapped up in copious amounts of tissue paper, and that's easy enough to rip satisfyingly. You figured from the size and shape of the boxes that this was some sort of item of clothing, and the first thing you notice as you pull black tissue paper into shreds is that you're right. The smooth, worked surface of a silk brocade shines up at you, the background and foreground dimensions each a deep red, crimsons almost interchangeable but for their differing brilliances, so that the design is barely visible at first, looking almost like a trick of the light. But as you look closer, it becomes clear that worked into the design of the fabric is a distinct pattern of branches, leaves, and apples. And you recall: L, did you know? Gods of death love apples.
You glance up at him.
"In my defence," he says, "I ordered the design a month ago."
Of course he realizes what your unease is here; you brush one hand across the smooth surface absently and admit that, Kira-related taunt or not, the workmanship on this item is incredible.
"So…" you say. "A corset?"
"Yes."
You look down at it. The shape is tapered and slim, and when you pick it up and feel the bulk of it you realize it's not at all what you would have expected. Even with stiffened boning running up the sides at intervals, and a backing fabric behind the silk, the piece is incredibly lightweight and malleable.
"I thought you said these had to be made-to-measure?" you ask. It doesn't take more than a glance to know that this is custom.
"I measured you when we played the tie-up game," Ryuzaki explains.
"So that's what that was," you say, thinking back. "Ryuzaki, this is—this is incredible. I mean, thank you." You can't say this is an item of clothing you've ever wanted to wear, but the thought that went into it and the lengths he went to keep it a surprise are definitely impressive. The front is held together almost invisibly by a black-painted hook-and-eye type construction that easily slides in and out, keeping the front stiff. The back is tied by a soft but strong black cord which has been loosely laced through the holes. "I thought these bits were usually metal too?" you ask. It's part of the image you've had just from seeing everything that Misa wears. The shiny metal that held in the lacing of every other corset you've seen (not that that's particularly many) seems a lot stronger and more durable than these round, corded holes; done up in a red that matches the shade of the fabric.
"The grommets?" Ryuzaki says. "Yes, they usually are. But they can sometimes press against the spine and be uncomfortable, so I don't like them very much. The corded version is actually stronger, you know," he explains. "You don't have to punch a hole in the fabric, instead, you just work a space in the threads. That way there's no possibility that the fabric will slip out of place."
"Well… thank you, then," you say. You smile at him. "I'm sure it will work really well. Do you want me to try it on now—?"
"You don't have to," Ryuzaki says. "I was going to give it to you earlier but then…"
"Yeah, we played tennis," you say. "I guess I should've waited to give you my present till I'd opened yours, I could've made it even better for you," you say.
"That doesn't matter," Ryuzaki says. "But I feel bad that you don't like it."
"It's not that I don't like it," you say. "I just don't know what to make of it. I mean, it's kind of—" intimate. Lavish. A perfect combination of everything he knows you appreciate and what turns Ryuzaki on. It feels like the kind of gift you'd give… well… to your plaything, wouldn't you. You look down at it again, taking more time now to imagine Ryuzaki creating this design, ordering the specifications, piecing together a frivolous piece of lingerie just because he wanted to.
Although to call it lingerie seems almost awkward; the sturdy craftsmanship as well as each subtle detail seem more powerful and lasting than any lingerie, as though when he designed it, he had been designing a monument. L, did you know? Gods of death love apples.
It is a celebration of Kira. Something that revels in the twisted game. Every inch of it, every thread; from the alluring exterior to the strong bones.
If you were to wear it… a shiver runs over your skin, unexpected; something cool and strange. This piece of art says, unequivocally, you belong to me.
You look up again at him, see him watching you thoughtfully, and realize you'd been speaking. Saying something about the corset. You're not sure what you were about to say, and all of a sudden you know that you like it after all.
"—It's beautiful, Ryuzaki," you say.
"Hm," Ryuzaki says quietly, and you see that calculating question in his eyes, as he pieces together your words and the silence between them.
You wrap the gift again in the paper and place it back in the box before sticking it in the drawer of your side table, and for the next few hours you and Ryuzaki play tetris. It's nearing one when you finally start getting ready for bed, and two when you turn all the lights off; in the deep shadows you pull your covers over yourself and hear Ryuzaki turning this way and that, making the bed shake and the sheets tug; you tighten your grip on the covers so he doesn't manage to drag them all the way over to his own side.
At last he settles down with a sigh and the only sound in the room is synthetic rain playing from his laptop.
"It's so weird to think," you say quietly, "that we've known each other for six months."
"Weird because it seems longer, or because it seems shorter?" Ryuzaki asks.
"I feel like I've known you forever," you say.
"You haven't," he says.
"I guess it must seem different to you," you say. "You've had so many other relationships and cases and gone so many places that this must seem short to you."
"Are you fishing for how much I care?" he asks drily.
"Would you ever tell me?" you retort.
He chuckles softly. "Light-kun," he says.
"Ryuzaki."
After a moment, he said, "I didn't plan any of this, you know."
Framing me for murder? You almost say it, but catch yourself in time. "Any of what?"
He shrugs. "This. It's not like I do this with all my suspects."
"Oh? Just 90 percent of them, then?"
"Zero percent," he says. "...Until you."
"You know, when I first met you, I hated you," you admit. "I thought you were trying to ruin my life."
"Only trying?" Ryuzaki says playfully.
"You didn't," you say.
"When I first met you, I thought you were trying to kill me," Ryuzaki says.
You laugh. You turn around to face him, and say, "why? Because I passed your stupid little test about the apples?"
"L, did you know—" he says.
"Gods of death love apples?" you say.
"And have red hands," Ryuzaki adds.
"Oh yeah, I forgot that part," you say.
"You shouldn't," he says, seriously.
/
In the morning, on Friday, you open your drawer and take out the box, putting it next to your clothes. Ryuzaki glances over at you as you open it up and take out the corset, saying idly, "I might need help figuring out how to put this on."
"I see," Ryuzaki says. "You want to look fashionable in front of your girlfriend this afternoon."
"Yeah," you agree. "I'm sure Misa would be impressed." You look at him and grin.
He steps closer, and leans over to pull out your drawer, grabbing two undershirts and sticking them on the bed.
"You only really need one to put under it," he says. "But if you don't like the line it makes under your shirt, you can put another one on top of it to smooth it down."
"That's gonna be pretty hot," you say.
Ryuzaki gives you an exaggerated once-over and you roll your eyes, shoving him. "Not like that."
"But Light-kun made it so easy for me," Ryuzaki says.
"It's called resisting temptation," you say. He presses his fingernail into his lip and gives you a wide-eyed look.
You take a shower, and get dressed. With the strap still on your feet you pull an undershirt over your head and then fiddle with the corset; it's tricky to put on but you wave off Ryuzaki's offer of help even as it takes you five tries to get the front hooked up correctly, and then you struggle to pull the laces in the back evenly. It's made to fit, so you don't have to pull it much, the hardest part is actually tying the laces closed. It reminds you of having to tie sneakers, but if you had to do that while reaching behind your back and not able to see what you're doing.
Still, with a little concentration you manage that, too; and before you put on your shirt—a loose tan button-up—you glance over at the mirror, intrigued.
And you pause with your hands still holding your shirt, surprised by the sudden fire that moves through you. In an instant, you're no longer thinking about playing into Ryuzaki's expectations or showing that you appreciate his gift or being aware of how the design calls back to your very first meeting. You're simply struck. This reflection of yours. He is standing, unselfconscious and bold; strong athletes' shoulders, a coy, pleasant look on his face like a careful porcelain mask; the corset, as strong and shining as blood, skimming down to your hips speaking of self-assurance; a secret that is yours to keep, that has nothing to do with the rest of the world. Like a poisonous flower or anything else dangerous to touch. It calls the copper tints from your hair and a wine-dark glint from your sharp and careful eyes. You feel real. Suddenly, vibrantly, brilliantly. And in the background of your reflection, like a shadow, Ryuzaki stands and watches you, the unhooked chain hanging from his right arm. If he is a black hole, then you must be a quasar; more luminous than any other spot, brighter than anything in your undoing, the spectacular fall of matter burning like a beacon into the unutterable void and pulling whole galaxies into your combined orbit.
Nothing lasts forever, but the span of heavenly bodies reaches not only infinite dimension in space but nearly infinite dimension in time, power at magnitudes incomprehensible to the human mind. The birth and dissolution of humanity itself, as important as it seems to you as one of them, is nothing more than a single heartbeat in the life of the universe, something that passes by unobserved. There is nothing moral nor immoral about the devastation of the heavens; there is nothing even so simple as destruction or creation, for both are intermixed completely. Kira, like all other grand phenomena, is power; on a level beyond the words connected to human cultures and frailties; that passes over the arbitrary designations of country, it is death itself.
And yet, from below, standing where you are on the world, you can still see the night-dark sky as a comfort, and feel blessed by the white coin of the moon.
.
.
.