[private]

[subversion]

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,

Comments

[reprism]

[when Light opens his eyes and finds himself lying flat on the floor of the all-too-familiar third floor landing right outside the door to the kitchen, he doesn't swear loudly or think 'oh not this shit again', because he's just staring at the ceiling and isn't quite sure where he is yet.

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.]

[subversion]

[And at the table sits yet another version of himself - older, mid-20s, slightly longer hair than most, and brighter, fussier clothes: today, there's something spun into the blue weave of his shirt that might be the finest silver thread, barely visible. The bowl is sitting on the table, because the noise - some of which translated and some of which, Light already knowing the languages, didn't - had been indescribable. Poised against the back of his chair, Light was rather hoping whatever it was wouldn't come in.

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.]

[reprism]

Hi. [Light says this without even looking in his double's direction, fully in a world of his own as he marches over to the fridge, fetching himself a glass as he goes - god, all this time and it's still all there, all the information, knowing exactly where everything is. it's only once he's poured himself some icewater and taken a few large gulps that he offers the other Light an iota of his attention.

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.]

[subversion]

No, you don't. Well, except inasmuch as you're a version of me.

[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?