Light is bouncing off the walls. Not literally, just in the metaphorical sense. He's been here almost three weeks; almost, and there's no sign of one of the doors becoming the front door of his house. His ipod's run out of power, and he can't walk away from the people he exploits. He's so far outside his comfort zone that he can no longer see it,
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then he turns his head, looks around a bit.
and as he gets to his feet, he does so while swearing loudly, in eight languages, because it makes him feel better and keeps him from panicking as badly as he wants to.]
L? [he hollers.] Near? Anybody? Oh for crying out loud. [not this shit again. god, if he gets stuck here again if he
no. no, he can't let himself do this yet. stop, breathe, take control.
for lack of anything better to do, he strides into the kitchen. his mouth feels heavy and dry, because he has, after all, just woken up, and it's as good a place to regroup as any.
this just isn't fucking fair.]
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It turns out the semi-familiarity of the voice wasn't a lie: it's him. Or not him: younger, and less defeated, and half-asleep, and angry. At the sight of him, Light's eyes narrow by a few millimetres, visible suspicion. His hands rest on the back of the chair, beneath his chin. What are you supposed to be? After all, based on what Light's been told, all his copies are mass-murderers...
Thinking about that, he waves one hand to the teapot on the counter. The comment isn't as offhand as it sounds; it's pregnant with meaning.] ( ... )
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he assesses him steadily for a couple of seconds, with a little frown, sipping more measuredly at his drink now.] I don't think I know you, do I? [then the mention of tea filters through to him, and he adds abruptly:] Oh, and thanks. About the tea, I mean. But it's cool. Or, well, it's not, which is why I'm turning it down.
[he is, coincidentally, dressed only in boxer shorts printed with dalmatians. yes, those dalmatians.
blame L.]
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[Light's ability to simply not care that someone is standing around in their underwear is worn in by long practice. Perhaps a version of himself standing there in those boxers stretches it a little, but what's he to do?
At the refusal of the tea, he grins, languid and just a little unpleasant.]
I understand. I wouldn't touch it either.
What happened, you got thrown out of your bedroom?
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