004 [week eighteen || day four] - true / dream
"If it's true?"
A flood of seconds, speeding from the gray, droplets savagely beating at stone, desperate to penetrate the building and batter the Earth itself. Translucent slivers shimmy down glass, winding paths intersecting and alternating between a charged race and leisurely stroll for the ground below. Healthy rain, loud, and thrumming into one constant shhhhhh, demanding silence, and the occupants of the room oblige in the dead of evening. Seconds and more seconds, soaking the city in doubt and ice.
You can hear it, feel it, but you only see scrolls of names upon names, liquid lines jutting over the window in your peripheral. Nature's white noise encourages concentration. Not on the work, no; on the response - for any telling hesitation, a clip of words, tension in the tongue or jaw, or some combination thereof. It's taxing, at this point, focusing while sleep-depleted and your eyelids scrape like cotton with each blink. Rebelling.
Ankles burn, angry.
"If it's true..." There, hesitation. He's considered it, indicating that his recollections do not add up in some way or form, that the evidence is enough to breed doubt which is, in itself, evidence. "Then it no longer is."
"For now."
"How long will I be under suspicion, if they do stop?"
"... I don't know."
"You're ridiculous. I can't spend my life chained to you."
"You wouldn't be chained the entirety."
"Ha, ha."
"Light-kun forced me to move so that he might rest. I suggest he does because I'd like to return at six."
Quiet spills into the room despite the sealed windows and utter dryness, dragging silence along the carpeting and littering the room with darkness.
"Do you ever sleep?"
"I do."
"Are you afraid?"
Faint pressure along brows and absent glance, at the man's back and that uncharacteristic fluff of chestnut locks peaking from the bundle. Fraction of a second, and then it's back to names that are much too blurry to be made out. It's disconcerting, you think, to spend such an excessive amount of time around someone so perceptive. More annoying, though.
"Should I be?"
"Ryuuzaki."
"Yes, Light-kun?"
"What am I going to do? Strangle you with the chain?"
"Viable."
"Knowing you, every corner of this room is under surveillance. I'm not stupid, and neither is Kira."
"Mm... Light-kun has thought well on this course of action, hm."
"Nnghh..." Sigh of exasperation, comforter scraping over sheets and pushed aside; a figure in the peripheral with an amusing bedhead. "I'm trying to tell you it's alright."
"That's infinitely relieving."
"Don't be a child."
"It's curious that you're luring me into a vulnerable state of unconsciousness."
"Ugh, forget it. I just thought you looked tired today."
If
it's
true
"Light-kun..."
Thumb at your lips, you can feel it prodding and that seems terribly natural as your eyes lift from the screen to find new surroundings, as though abruptly transported. This isn't surprising in the least. No. Instead, you're curious, interested, fascinated and all of the above.
"What is it? Did you find something?"
"Yes." The chair budges with the weight of a hand and the proximity doesn't receive acknowledgment, and you're staring at him hard now. "I thought you might share your opinion on these."
"..."
"..."
"Ryuuzaki, this isn't funny."
"I found it in poor taste, as well."
It's
true
if
Knuckles bruise your cheekbone and you immediately retaliate by returning the favor, foot vibrating in protest to the harsh connecting kick and you stumble when your leg's shoved back. It's aches, the dig of desk corner against your lower back, and the follow-up shove does little to relieve it. Your neck stretches, away from the tightening of the collar, fabric fisted in shaking hands and your vision is filled with those burning ambers. You're predicting a dizzying punch to the forehead, to be paid back in full with a knee to the lower stomach; it doesn't come.
Fury drain from his face and neck, shoulders, and the tangled cloth smooths as he loosens the grip and simply scowls down between labored breaths.
"I'm... not Kira..."
"But you are violent..." Monotone between uneven breaths and you might just knee him before that inevitable hit despite the temporary ceasefire.
"You're provoking me. Can we go one day without you... twisting my words?"
"Light-kun, my back..."
Blinking dumbly and he clearly applies more pressure several seconds before distance is reacquired and you lick your bloodied lips. Copper and bitterness, the latter of which seems foreign, leaking into the past from a more... recent time, but you do not fully realize this fact. It's there, tickling the edges and creating a surreal visual of Light returning to his work space.
"Seriously, Ryuuzaki. You don't know how difficult it is to work with you when you're constantly accusing me of Kira-like mannerisms; whatever that means. It's exhausting."
"I'm sorry."
"You're not."
"Mm, no."
You're returning to your spot as well, just beside your companion, as though there hadn't just been an explosive fight that your spine would not soon forget. As he's lifting his drink, clearly dehydrated, you jerk the chain unintentionally and there is quite the mess. The following jerk that comes nearly takes your hand off as he heads to the side kitchen, likely for paper towels.
True
if
it's
Cold.
Icy spikes biting through your sleeves, at wrists, arms and shoulders and the dull thrum of the unrelenting rain is penetrating to the bone. It makes you shiver, deep down, but it doesn't reach the flesh as you watch it forever soak the city in doubt and the sound of bells. You wanted to be alone, away, safe maybe, and, through the shhhhhhhhhhh, words - and you glance to him.
He's playing concern, see.
His face, pretty for a purpose, glows with warmth, eyes filled with worry and he seems to be considering crossing the distance. But you know him; he hates getting his hair wet. You hope he'll just leave. He doesn't.
It's amusing, playing with him again, dancing circles with full knowledge that it's returned, whatever it was, and no longer are you condemning an "innocent" man. All the same, this was the day, supposedly, of your death. The bells haven't ceased, and you know it's a trick of the mind but it's almost deafening.
Your words come out rehearsed, muffled by the loudness of the bells, and you proceed to work the towel over the flawless skin, drying the ankle and then the heel of his foot. Your head is bowed and you're bitter, so very bitter, but you're not sure why. Your hair drips onto the skin and you murmur an apology, repeating the process. The pressure of the towel on your head, working over soaked locks and you glance to the man who, by some trick of the light, is cleansed in light.
And you think it's odd, really, considering how hopelessly dark and cloudy a day it is.
--
[ L blinks into awareness, uncomfortably wedged against the side of the bathtub, cushioned with covers and he glances to the hitomi. It's too dark for a visual. The feed cuts quietly.
True. ]
A flood of seconds, speeding from the gray, droplets savagely beating at stone, desperate to penetrate the building and batter the Earth itself. Translucent slivers shimmy down glass, winding paths intersecting and alternating between a charged race and leisurely stroll for the ground below. Healthy rain, loud, and thrumming into one constant shhhhhh, demanding silence, and the occupants of the room oblige in the dead of evening. Seconds and more seconds, soaking the city in doubt and ice.
You can hear it, feel it, but you only see scrolls of names upon names, liquid lines jutting over the window in your peripheral. Nature's white noise encourages concentration. Not on the work, no; on the response - for any telling hesitation, a clip of words, tension in the tongue or jaw, or some combination thereof. It's taxing, at this point, focusing while sleep-depleted and your eyelids scrape like cotton with each blink. Rebelling.
Ankles burn, angry.
"If it's true..." There, hesitation. He's considered it, indicating that his recollections do not add up in some way or form, that the evidence is enough to breed doubt which is, in itself, evidence. "Then it no longer is."
"For now."
"How long will I be under suspicion, if they do stop?"
"... I don't know."
"You're ridiculous. I can't spend my life chained to you."
"You wouldn't be chained the entirety."
"Ha, ha."
"Light-kun forced me to move so that he might rest. I suggest he does because I'd like to return at six."
Quiet spills into the room despite the sealed windows and utter dryness, dragging silence along the carpeting and littering the room with darkness.
"Do you ever sleep?"
"I do."
"Are you afraid?"
Faint pressure along brows and absent glance, at the man's back and that uncharacteristic fluff of chestnut locks peaking from the bundle. Fraction of a second, and then it's back to names that are much too blurry to be made out. It's disconcerting, you think, to spend such an excessive amount of time around someone so perceptive. More annoying, though.
"Should I be?"
"Ryuuzaki."
"Yes, Light-kun?"
"What am I going to do? Strangle you with the chain?"
"Viable."
"Knowing you, every corner of this room is under surveillance. I'm not stupid, and neither is Kira."
"Mm... Light-kun has thought well on this course of action, hm."
"Nnghh..." Sigh of exasperation, comforter scraping over sheets and pushed aside; a figure in the peripheral with an amusing bedhead. "I'm trying to tell you it's alright."
"That's infinitely relieving."
"Don't be a child."
"It's curious that you're luring me into a vulnerable state of unconsciousness."
"Ugh, forget it. I just thought you looked tired today."
If
it's
true
"Light-kun..."
Thumb at your lips, you can feel it prodding and that seems terribly natural as your eyes lift from the screen to find new surroundings, as though abruptly transported. This isn't surprising in the least. No. Instead, you're curious, interested, fascinated and all of the above.
"What is it? Did you find something?"
"Yes." The chair budges with the weight of a hand and the proximity doesn't receive acknowledgment, and you're staring at him hard now. "I thought you might share your opinion on these."
"..."
"..."
"Ryuuzaki, this isn't funny."
"I found it in poor taste, as well."
It's
true
if
Knuckles bruise your cheekbone and you immediately retaliate by returning the favor, foot vibrating in protest to the harsh connecting kick and you stumble when your leg's shoved back. It's aches, the dig of desk corner against your lower back, and the follow-up shove does little to relieve it. Your neck stretches, away from the tightening of the collar, fabric fisted in shaking hands and your vision is filled with those burning ambers. You're predicting a dizzying punch to the forehead, to be paid back in full with a knee to the lower stomach; it doesn't come.
Fury drain from his face and neck, shoulders, and the tangled cloth smooths as he loosens the grip and simply scowls down between labored breaths.
"I'm... not Kira..."
"But you are violent..." Monotone between uneven breaths and you might just knee him before that inevitable hit despite the temporary ceasefire.
"You're provoking me. Can we go one day without you... twisting my words?"
"Light-kun, my back..."
Blinking dumbly and he clearly applies more pressure several seconds before distance is reacquired and you lick your bloodied lips. Copper and bitterness, the latter of which seems foreign, leaking into the past from a more... recent time, but you do not fully realize this fact. It's there, tickling the edges and creating a surreal visual of Light returning to his work space.
"Seriously, Ryuuzaki. You don't know how difficult it is to work with you when you're constantly accusing me of Kira-like mannerisms; whatever that means. It's exhausting."
"I'm sorry."
"You're not."
"Mm, no."
You're returning to your spot as well, just beside your companion, as though there hadn't just been an explosive fight that your spine would not soon forget. As he's lifting his drink, clearly dehydrated, you jerk the chain unintentionally and there is quite the mess. The following jerk that comes nearly takes your hand off as he heads to the side kitchen, likely for paper towels.
True
if
it's
Cold.
Icy spikes biting through your sleeves, at wrists, arms and shoulders and the dull thrum of the unrelenting rain is penetrating to the bone. It makes you shiver, deep down, but it doesn't reach the flesh as you watch it forever soak the city in doubt and the sound of bells. You wanted to be alone, away, safe maybe, and, through the shhhhhhhhhhh, words - and you glance to him.
He's playing concern, see.
His face, pretty for a purpose, glows with warmth, eyes filled with worry and he seems to be considering crossing the distance. But you know him; he hates getting his hair wet. You hope he'll just leave. He doesn't.
It's amusing, playing with him again, dancing circles with full knowledge that it's returned, whatever it was, and no longer are you condemning an "innocent" man. All the same, this was the day, supposedly, of your death. The bells haven't ceased, and you know it's a trick of the mind but it's almost deafening.
Your words come out rehearsed, muffled by the loudness of the bells, and you proceed to work the towel over the flawless skin, drying the ankle and then the heel of his foot. Your head is bowed and you're bitter, so very bitter, but you're not sure why. Your hair drips onto the skin and you murmur an apology, repeating the process. The pressure of the towel on your head, working over soaked locks and you glance to the man who, by some trick of the light, is cleansed in light.
And you think it's odd, really, considering how hopelessly dark and cloudy a day it is.
--
[ L blinks into awareness, uncomfortably wedged against the side of the bathtub, cushioned with covers and he glances to the hitomi. It's too dark for a visual. The feed cuts quietly.
True. ]