Secret Santa
[Title] Put Away Childish Things
[Rating] G
[Characters] Matsuda and L
[Word Count] 1125
[Warnings] None
[Written For] razberridust, prompt 'youth, toys'.
[Summary] Matsuda and L discuss childhood.
Matsuda's always edgy when he's on his own with Ryuzaki. He really doesn't know how to act around the guy. This is the famous L, right, but at the same time he makes it really difficult for you to treat him like he's that. Or, in fact, for you to do anything but stare at him in puzzlement or get irritated.
Like, right now, Matsuda is the one reading pages of data until his eyes go funny, and Ryuzaki is the one building a tower out of sugar cubes, and the thick hotel room curtains are almost completely closed and the sight of bright sunlight trapped between velvet just makes Matsuda's head ache even more. And so, at last, keeping his eyes on his work so he that can't be called on slacking, he calls across to Ryuzaki, "How do you get them to balance so high? I've never seen anyone manage that before."
As he says it, the tower topples, and sugar lumps skitter across the polished table. Ryuzaki sighs, gives Matsuda an irritated look over the back of his chair, and starts picking them up.
"It's a question of careful handling," he says.
"Oh."
Ryuzaki starts stacking the cubes again, holding each one carefully between finger and thumb. Matsuda gives up on pretending to work, and watches to see how high he'll manage to build this time. Ryuzaki manages eight cubes before the tower falls over again, and then looks round and stares coldly at Matsuda as if it's his fault.
Matsuda resists the urge to hang his head and mumble sorry. Just because you're the greatest detective in the world doesn't mean you're always in the right. But he has to say something, and so he blurts out, "Does... it helps you to think, right? Like... fiddling with a pen or something?"
Ryuzaki sighs, shifts in his crouch a little; the chair creaks. It's the only sound, the hotel being designed to provide a quiet, peaceful haven for its clientele. No traffic noises, no shouting or music from other rooms. Matsuda always feels vaguely disorientated when he steps back into the real world.
Just as he's about to give up on conversation, Ryuzaki, still scrutinising the sugar lumps, speaks.
"Did you play with toys as a child, Matsuda-san?"
Matsuda blinks. "Uh... yeah. Doesn't everybody?"
"I never found them very interesting." Cube on top of cube. Ryuzaki is a scruffy silhouette against the glow of the computer screen; individual strands of hair lie like cracks across it. "I had little interest in making up games."
"Uh... right. I..." Matsuda realises he's just about to blurt out that he loved making up games when he was a kid, that his best Christmas present ever was the set of Ghostbusters action figures he got when he was seven 'cause he used to plan out adventures for them, that he only stopped when his dad pointed out he really should be growing up now. You shouldn't consider telling any boss about this sort of stuff, let alone one like Ryuzaki. "I... guess that makes sense. How come?"
The sugar cubes fall again. This time Ryuzaki doesn't pick them up, but instead remains quite still, staring at the white screen.
"What is the point," he says, "of creating worlds where you can define all the rules?"
He licks a finger, presses it to the grains of sugar left on the table. For a second, his fingerprint glows slightly in the little sunlight left.
"I don't get it," Matsuda says, honestly.
Ryuzaki sighs, and continues, "A child can make his toys into anything he wants. He may follow scientific fact only as long as it suits him, and if he backs the heroes into a corner, he can simply rewrite earlier events. I found it unsatisfying."
"Really? I guess, but... but couldn't you have, I don't know, made rules for yourself?"
"I could," Ryuzaki says. "But it didn't seem particularly interesting to do so."
"Didn't you ever play with toys at all?" And, thinking about it, Matsuda can only imagine child-Ryuzaki as being a smaller version of the one sat in front of him; hunched, quiet, deliberately odd. He can't imagine the detective playing football with other kids, or pretending to fly a toy plane, or waging an imaginary war with Transformers or whatever. Well - actually, he can imagine the adult Ryuzaki doing that (like pointing a finger and saying Bang) but only to freak people out. Not just because it's fun.
"I played with puzzles," Ryuzaki says, shrugging. "I suppose that I never stopped."
"Oh." Matsuda remembers he was never able to solve Rubik's Cubes and he constantly lost at every board game. "Yeah, I guess you... you would've done." It's probably different if you're a famous detective. "Then... why the... the sugar lumps and stuff?"
"It is quite difficult to beat the law of gravity."
Matsuda knows he should end the conversation there, that he really is supposed to be working (that it might just be a, a test to see whether he's really committed or something) but he can't resist saying, "I guess... I guess you find that kind of stuff fun? Like, winning things? Is that better than just playing games?"
"What's the point of playing games when there's no way to win?" Ryuzaki looks round and smiles at him. It's always weird when this happens; Ryuzaki's smile's like a weird shadow or something. Matsuda quickly glances back at the report, but Ryuzaki continues anyway, "Do not mistake me, Matsuda-san. I am not claiming maturity. I have changed relatively little since I was a child. But then, I suspect that most people have not... not when it comes to how they play." And his eyes flick over Matsuda, who's looked back at him by now, and Matsuda feels like he did confess about the Ghostbusters action figures after all. And he doesn't want Ryuzaki to elaborate on his comment, not with regards to him, anyway, and so he blurts out, because it's kind of to do with work, "Hey, you think Kira played with toys when he was a kid?"
Ryuzaki gazes at him for several seconds. He doesn't blink much, either.
"No doubt he would have been perfectly happy with a world where he could define all the rules," he says.
Shrugging, he sweeps the sugar lumps off the table and back into the bowl.
[Rating] G
[Characters] Matsuda and L
[Word Count] 1125
[Warnings] None
[Written For] razberridust, prompt 'youth, toys'.
[Summary] Matsuda and L discuss childhood.
Matsuda's always edgy when he's on his own with Ryuzaki. He really doesn't know how to act around the guy. This is the famous L, right, but at the same time he makes it really difficult for you to treat him like he's that. Or, in fact, for you to do anything but stare at him in puzzlement or get irritated.
Like, right now, Matsuda is the one reading pages of data until his eyes go funny, and Ryuzaki is the one building a tower out of sugar cubes, and the thick hotel room curtains are almost completely closed and the sight of bright sunlight trapped between velvet just makes Matsuda's head ache even more. And so, at last, keeping his eyes on his work so he that can't be called on slacking, he calls across to Ryuzaki, "How do you get them to balance so high? I've never seen anyone manage that before."
As he says it, the tower topples, and sugar lumps skitter across the polished table. Ryuzaki sighs, gives Matsuda an irritated look over the back of his chair, and starts picking them up.
"It's a question of careful handling," he says.
"Oh."
Ryuzaki starts stacking the cubes again, holding each one carefully between finger and thumb. Matsuda gives up on pretending to work, and watches to see how high he'll manage to build this time. Ryuzaki manages eight cubes before the tower falls over again, and then looks round and stares coldly at Matsuda as if it's his fault.
Matsuda resists the urge to hang his head and mumble sorry. Just because you're the greatest detective in the world doesn't mean you're always in the right. But he has to say something, and so he blurts out, "Does... it helps you to think, right? Like... fiddling with a pen or something?"
Ryuzaki sighs, shifts in his crouch a little; the chair creaks. It's the only sound, the hotel being designed to provide a quiet, peaceful haven for its clientele. No traffic noises, no shouting or music from other rooms. Matsuda always feels vaguely disorientated when he steps back into the real world.
Just as he's about to give up on conversation, Ryuzaki, still scrutinising the sugar lumps, speaks.
"Did you play with toys as a child, Matsuda-san?"
Matsuda blinks. "Uh... yeah. Doesn't everybody?"
"I never found them very interesting." Cube on top of cube. Ryuzaki is a scruffy silhouette against the glow of the computer screen; individual strands of hair lie like cracks across it. "I had little interest in making up games."
"Uh... right. I..." Matsuda realises he's just about to blurt out that he loved making up games when he was a kid, that his best Christmas present ever was the set of Ghostbusters action figures he got when he was seven 'cause he used to plan out adventures for them, that he only stopped when his dad pointed out he really should be growing up now. You shouldn't consider telling any boss about this sort of stuff, let alone one like Ryuzaki. "I... guess that makes sense. How come?"
The sugar cubes fall again. This time Ryuzaki doesn't pick them up, but instead remains quite still, staring at the white screen.
"What is the point," he says, "of creating worlds where you can define all the rules?"
He licks a finger, presses it to the grains of sugar left on the table. For a second, his fingerprint glows slightly in the little sunlight left.
"I don't get it," Matsuda says, honestly.
Ryuzaki sighs, and continues, "A child can make his toys into anything he wants. He may follow scientific fact only as long as it suits him, and if he backs the heroes into a corner, he can simply rewrite earlier events. I found it unsatisfying."
"Really? I guess, but... but couldn't you have, I don't know, made rules for yourself?"
"I could," Ryuzaki says. "But it didn't seem particularly interesting to do so."
"Didn't you ever play with toys at all?" And, thinking about it, Matsuda can only imagine child-Ryuzaki as being a smaller version of the one sat in front of him; hunched, quiet, deliberately odd. He can't imagine the detective playing football with other kids, or pretending to fly a toy plane, or waging an imaginary war with Transformers or whatever. Well - actually, he can imagine the adult Ryuzaki doing that (like pointing a finger and saying Bang) but only to freak people out. Not just because it's fun.
"I played with puzzles," Ryuzaki says, shrugging. "I suppose that I never stopped."
"Oh." Matsuda remembers he was never able to solve Rubik's Cubes and he constantly lost at every board game. "Yeah, I guess you... you would've done." It's probably different if you're a famous detective. "Then... why the... the sugar lumps and stuff?"
"It is quite difficult to beat the law of gravity."
Matsuda knows he should end the conversation there, that he really is supposed to be working (that it might just be a, a test to see whether he's really committed or something) but he can't resist saying, "I guess... I guess you find that kind of stuff fun? Like, winning things? Is that better than just playing games?"
"What's the point of playing games when there's no way to win?" Ryuzaki looks round and smiles at him. It's always weird when this happens; Ryuzaki's smile's like a weird shadow or something. Matsuda quickly glances back at the report, but Ryuzaki continues anyway, "Do not mistake me, Matsuda-san. I am not claiming maturity. I have changed relatively little since I was a child. But then, I suspect that most people have not... not when it comes to how they play." And his eyes flick over Matsuda, who's looked back at him by now, and Matsuda feels like he did confess about the Ghostbusters action figures after all. And he doesn't want Ryuzaki to elaborate on his comment, not with regards to him, anyway, and so he blurts out, because it's kind of to do with work, "Hey, you think Kira played with toys when he was a kid?"
Ryuzaki gazes at him for several seconds. He doesn't blink much, either.
"No doubt he would have been perfectly happy with a world where he could define all the rules," he says.
Shrugging, he sweeps the sugar lumps off the table and back into the bowl.