Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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“What are you staring at?” 

Nothing, really.  

He’s staring at the way the cityscape glitters and dances along the skyline and how the tops of broadcast towers bleed red light onto dark clouds. Ide’s stomach sank initially, mistaking that warm strip across the horizon as daylight breaking and thinking they’d worked till morning, but no— just city light reflected on the sky. It’s possible he’s loopy from lack of sleep and his eyes are blurring the view into this surreal, colorful scene. Or perhaps it truly is this strangely beautiful and he’s simply never noticed before.

It’s far too late at night to put that into coherent words, however, and he’s not sure he wants to distract Matsuda further by answering his question when they’re supposed to be finishing their reports.

“Nothing, really. Just tired.” Ide pulls his gaze from the window and returns his focus to the incident report he started an hour ago and somehow has yet to put a dent in. And there are three more to get through before their night is done.

It’s always the same. Same circumstances, same heart attacks. It’s important to keep track; note the demographic of victims, locations, times of death— he knows. But as Kira deaths pile up as they always do, something that should be so horrific has become mundane, his eyes glazing over each body displayed as text on a screen. They roll in without fail, meeting the quota he’s come to expect each day. And perhaps these thoughts are in poor taste, but he’s certain everyone else on the investigation team is just as jaded.

Matsuda sneaks one last look at him before returning to his laptop. He scrolls the page mindlessly. Taps at the keys only to backspace then leisurely type out the same line again.

He’s not really doing any work, is he? Ide sighs, then reminds himself it’s not like he’s been any more productive.

“That’s not like you,” Matsuda mutters under his breath.

“What? To be tired? I think that’s ‘like’ all of us for the last several years.” He speaks bluntly, but he knows his annoyance is somewhat feigned, secretly relieved to stall his work.

“Not that, it’s…” Matsuda shakes his head. “What I mean is you usually power through. You’re not the type to have your head in the clouds and daydream– or nightdream? Well, you’re not the type, anyway.”

Ide pretends he completed his report, clicking open a new file. “You don’t know what type I am,” he scoffs.

“The way too serious type.”

“No, I think you’re just overly carefree, Matsuda.” He feels the hint of a smile shine through his words and before he can think, he’s reaching out a hand to ruffle Matsuda’s hair, surprised by how natural the gesture feels. Aizawa once remarked that the two of them seemed close, and he’d been caught off guard by the comment, didn’t understand it. It’s not like he and Matsuda are any more or less close than anyone else on the Kira Task Force— coworkers sharing the same stuffy apartment suite for often days on end, so sure, the circumstances are a little unusual, but they’re all in the same boat. Then again, it’s moments like this, his fingers lingering longer than they should in soft dark hair, when Aizawa’s observation rings true in Ide’s ears.

Matsuda returns his smile and lightly bats his hand away. “…Then you don’t know what type I am, either.”

“Yeah, right. I can read you like an open book.”

Maybe they really are close. Maybe he already knew that. He’d love to claim he never gave it much thought, never read into the easy flow of their conversations or the comfortable silences they share. But the truth is, he has thought about it. Many times over. (Too many to count—) 

Matsuda turns to look over his shoulder, something outside the window catching his attention. Ide follows his line of sight to that same strip of red across the skyline he’d been entranced with earlier.

“See that? It looks like a sunrise, doesn’t it? I mean, thank god it’s not,” Matsuda laughs. That bright and lifting sound. And Ide realizes he doesn’t mind filling out these reports as cruel and devastating and endless as they may seem. In this room where the air is stale and the surrounding monitors never seem to flicker off and give them pause for rest— he doesn’t mind it so much, so long as he can keep hearing that pleasant sound. Matsuda turns to face him. “It’s the light from the city shining on the clouds, I think. Sometimes it makes the whole sky turn red. Strange, huh? Have you ever noticed?”

“…No, I haven’t.”

“It’s pretty.” Matsuda cranes his neck to stare at the view again.

Ide doesn’t. “It is.”

They soak in the scene and for a moment HQ disappears and they’re somewhere else entirely, some alternate reality where Kira never rose to power or even existed in the first place. In a world like that, maybe they could have worked a normal case together that didn’t consume their every waking moment. Or maybe they never would have met at all. …And on second thought, he doesn’t want anything to do with that hypothetical.

Ide settles heavier in his seat, quietly content. Steeped in this small moment in time. The presence next to him. He indulges in a few minutes of this, then gives Matsuda a nudge and tells him to get back to work, or else it really will be sunrise by the time they’re done.

___________

January 26, 2010

Only two days until…

Until what? 

Near kept it absurdly vague on the call yesterday morning. A meeting at the specified location, some abandoned warehouse in Yokohama called Yellow Box where they’ll come face to face with the SPK for the first time and Near will share his evidence. Lay everything out on the table— some revelation that will bring this case to a close and put an end to Kira. So Near claims.

Or, according to Aizawa, it’ll be the day Light attempts to eliminate every single person in that warehouse, including the Kira Task Force. Including them.

Aizawa’s more restless than Ide’s ever seen him, and it’s unsettling. Caught him pacing the lobby of their building on multiple occasions when he thought no one was looking, then outside the glass doors, cigarette in hand, a habit Ide thought he broke years ago. Distress paled him, clearly shaken from the burden of having more seeds of doubt sown after speaking with Near on the phone. Aizawa told him bits and pieces of their conversations, including something about Near informing him the Task Force is essentially out of the picture as far as this case is concerned. When Aizawa relayed that information, Ide shot him a look that said, Bullshit, because they’re the ones who have had to work with the suspect, hell, practically live with him, for the last five years.

Aizawa winced at that, but ultimately gave a resigned nod. “I know. But we need all the help we can get,” he’d said. “And Near seems to know what he’s doing.”

So it appears Aizawa’s placing all his trust in Near. And most of the time, he’s inclined to think Aizawa’s decision is the right one, equal parts dependable and convincing as he is. Someone whose opinion he trusts.

But Ide also knows that righteous nature of his can sometimes manifest itself as being downright stubborn. An unwillingness to consider other possibilities, one of those many possibilities being Near’s loss and all of their deaths. If Light is indeed Kira and he’s been deceiving them since the first day he joined the case, then there’s no doubt in Ide’s mind someone so cunning would be perfectly capable of killing them off in one fell swoop. He’s always been like that, after all; one step ahead. He was certainly a step ahead of the first L, wasn’t he? 

So then what chance do we really have?

But, as the Kira Task Force, they’ve got to do something. Because if they leave it all up to Near, and then Near can’t outsmart him, if Near gets them all killed in two days—

…

…Even if they were to take matters into their own hands, what on earth would they do? One misstep, and Light may as well do away with them before they even reach the 28th. Powerless as they’ve ever been during this entire godforsaken investigation…

So maybe it is all hopeless and they’re sitting ducks playing the part of a team until Light inevitably puts them out of their misery. Seems silly to be wasting his time at headquarters right now doing busywork when they'll probably all be dead in a couple days time. He should be cherishing these last moments alive saying goodbye to his loved ones.

And who would those loved ones be, exactly?

Fine. Maybe this is exactly where he belongs, sitting here at HQ on another thankless, late night.

The news hums in the background as it always does; Today’s Miss Takada flickering onto their screens at 9 o'clock right on schedule. Footage of her adoring fans flooding the street outside the broadcast station plays, the crowd clamoring over one another, faces bright with some twisted mix of desperation and worship.

Takada’s voice speaks calmly over a small disruption breaking out amongst the sea of people. …Some poor soul who doesn’t have the sense to shut his mouth in public. He can’t be more than 20 years old. Just a kid. He raises a sign, eliciting nothing more than a few heads turning his way as he shouts into the masses in a sorry attempt to incite an anti-Kira protest. Before the crowd’s even really registered his presence, he’s apprehended by several of Takada’s bodyguards, clad in black suits, carrying heavy black Glocks that normally wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the streets of Tokyo. But things haven’t been “normal” in a very long time. 

Ide’s heart is in his throat as he watches the boy wildly thrash in their grip, the struggle earning him a severe hit to the temple with the butt of a gun, and his neck… His neck goes limp and his head just hangs there, thick blood spilling over his face— until the footage cuts and the screen goes dark for half a second, then promptly cuts back to Takada sitting at her desk, expression unfazed. Clean, polished. A sterile set on a cream colored backdrop, safe from the cruel display below at street level. Unstained by that red trickle of blood surely pooling on the asphalt as she speaks, able to so easily wash her hands of this.

He can only observe the screen with hollow eyes and a suppressed gag for so long before he has to look away. But her gentle voice continues to shake him. He takes solace in focusing on the opposite wall, surface blank and cloaked in shadow. Devoid of any of this insanity.

Bleak as it is, this room has essentially become their second home. It's changed location since returning to Japan, but somehow stays fundamentally the same. The mood hangs too dark and the monitors shine too bright. He sits hunched over on the sofa, an ache crawling up his spine that’s only grown worse throughout the night. Aizawa’s been anchored to a desk at the other side of the room for god knows how long, his back turned to him. He’s hardly spoken a word since this morning, and so it comes as a surprise when his voice emerges out of the darkness, low and direct.

“Keep an eye on Matsuda until the meeting on the 28th, would you?”

“…What?” Ide blinks, adjusting to the dim room as well as the sudden request. “Why?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Matsuda and Light-kun— they’ve been practically joined at the hip for the last couple months.” He turns in his chair to face him. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”

Of course he’s noticed. How could he not? His hand spreads over the couch cushion next to him, over soft linen and little loose threads, a spot usually filled by…

He can’t meet Aizawa’s eyes, opting instead to untangle microphone and earpiece kit wires that scatter the table in front of him. “You know how it is with Matsuda. He’s always admired Light-kun. It’s not unusual behavior for him.”

Aizawa shoots him an incredulous look before hauling himself up from his desk. “It’s just to be safe. I don’t want any more of a wedge driven between us, especially at a time like this.” He makes his way over to Ide on tired limbs, coming to lean on the arm of the couch. Pinches his brow. “All I’m asking is that you… I don’t know, talk to him.”

“You reek of cigarettes, you know.”

“Yeah, well, that’s really the least of my worries these days. Don’t change the topic.”

“Hm. What does Eriko have to say about it?”

Aizawa breathes out a weary laugh. “I barely step in the door before I have to leave again. I don’t think she has time to notice. And even if she does, we… we don’t talk much.”

Ide doesn’t push it. He can’t begin to imagine maintaining a functional marriage with their work situation, much less with kids. Aizawa has his permission to smoke two packs a day if that’s what’s keeping him sane right now. He lets the subject pass. “I’m not sure Matsuda will listen to me. Why do you want me to do it?”

“What do you mean? You and Matsuda are close, aren’t you?”

“…”

___________

“Close,” huh? 

Aizawa’s words replay in Ide’s head over the next several hours, flitting in and out of his thoughts as he alternates between half-hearted work and staring out the window at low hanging clouds. It looks like rain. 

He’s aware Aizawa’s preoccupied with keeping tabs on Light rather than noticing the deteriorating relationship between his other coworkers, but why the hell did he have to say that? Shouldn’t it be obvious enough? He lets out an agitated sigh.

He eyes Matsuda, who finally decided to join them after spending the majority of the work day upstairs in Light’s suite. He’s planted himself in the armchair in the corner of the room, lounged back with his chin resting in one hand, the other typing away at a report on his laptop. Ide packed up his bag, his umbrella, and other belongings long ago. Aizawa as well. It’s late. So late, it may very well be past twelve, the sky drenched in heavy black. Matsuda never used to like working after midnight if he could help it– that’s not– it’s just not who he is. 

But Light also works late.

So, no, they haven’t been “close” for a long time. Haven’t even really interacted, not since the explosion three months ago in L.A. at the Mafia base. Since Mello died and took Deputy Director Yagami out with him. When they were all still broken and bandaged and then Matsuda just had to think out loud and announce to the room that while he doesn’t claim to support Kira—

“Do you guys ever think that maybe Kira isn’t completely evil?”

—he wasn’t ready to outright condemn him, either. 

“I guess I must be crazy or something, huh…?”

While he could tell Matsuda regretted saying it out loud, that was all; it wasn’t as though he regretted thinking it, or worse, believing it. Whether they’d admit it or not, his confession that night managed to thoroughly rattle all of them. All of them… except Light. While he and Aizawa reacted with instant shock and push-back, Light responded with ease and confidence, with warm acceptance. Folded Matsuda’s doubts up neatly in the palm of his hand and relinquished him of guilt.

“No, you’re not crazy. You’re normal.”

That’s when things started to change.

Ide remembers the shift in Matsuda’s expression well— disheartened gaze pulled from the floor and guided up to a beacon of grace and approval and transformed into something new, something Ide had never seen before. Something that pulsated in his head and heated his face and made him want to grab Light by the collar and make him shut his mouth, though he couldn't articulate the reasons why at the time.

But it made sense that Matsuda would so easily fall under the spell of such a seemingly insignificant line. Why shouldn’t he? Presence acknowledged by Yagami Light, the man with all the answers. Alluring words full of solace that sweep love-starved people like Matsuda off their feet.

He convinced himself to write it off at first. Ignored the way Matsuda’s eyes followed Light around the room the following weeks, the cheery “good morning”s and the yearning looks accompanying his “goodnight”s, his taking every small opportunity he could to inch closer to the man, bump shoulders or brush past him in the hall. Those interactions were tolerable because Matsuda… he’d always had a fondness for Light, maybe even something akin to a crush. But Light had never indulged it or reciprocated it. No, of course not. 

Until he inexplicably did.

It was evident in the late nights. In the way Matsuda found a sudden sense of investment in the case, working later and later into the small hours of the morning until the rest of the Task Force eventually all returned home and left him behind at headquarters with Light. The way Ide turned the corner to the kitchenette one morning and caught them smiling, talking. Light, as reserved as he’d become since the death of his father, uncharacteristically half sitting on the counter next to Matsuda with a relaxed arm around his shoulder. Their faces were close, too close, and Matsuda parted from Light’s grasp with a small jerk when he noticed Ide in the doorway like he’d walked in on something—

Their relationship is evident tonight, as well. It’s gotten worse in the last month with Mogi and Amane detained by the SPK, because Light lives alone now, and so naturally the time Matsuda spends at HQ has only grown more frequent. Come to think of it, when was the last time he went home to his own apartment? The cluttered one bedroom unit is probably long abandoned, save for when Matsuda stops by to pick up a change of clothes. 

And so it’s evident tonight as it always is. As Matsuda shows no signs of leaving for the night.

Ide inches his arm through the sleeve of his coat, drawing out the simple process. He finds his gaze consistently drawn back to Matsuda, afraid he’ll slip away back upstairs to Light’s suite if he loses sight of him for even a second. A small hope lives in the back of his mind that Matsuda will stand from his chair and bundle himself up in his jacket and muffler and the two of them will brave the cold on the way to the train station as they always used to, walking at a brisk pace, Matsuda smiling like an idiot and running ahead of him. Nearly tripping over himself to tease him over his shoulder, goading him to keep up. Wide grin, hair disheveled by the gusty wind. Back when things found a way to be simple and happy and carefree despite it all. 

Aizawa pauses under the front doorway and glances at his watch, then catches Ide’s attention. Gestures to Matsuda with a nod of his head. An expectant look. Before Ide can react, Aizawa’s stepped out and closed the door behind him, leaving him to… do what? What exactly does Aizawa expect him to say? There was a time in the past when being alone in a room with Matsuda would have felt natural. Comforting, even. But now it’s hollow and strained, and staying feels like intruding, and it’s really pathetic he ever thought they shared anything beyond friendly workplace pleasantries, so he should probably just leave. There’s nothing he can do or say to change things, anyway. He needs to leave—

“What time is it?” Matsuda shuts his laptop and yawns. Stretches his limbs. 

So much for that. “…Morning, maybe.” 

Matsuda throws his head up to groan at the ceiling. “No way. Really?”

“So, c’mon. Let’s go.”

Please.  

Ide braces, biting the inside of his cheek and somehow unable to look Matsuda in the eye. Because he’s taking a chance and maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. “I think it’s started to rain, but if we leave now we can make it to the station before it gets any heavier. Besides, you’ve always hated working late, so why don’t we get out of here?” It’s a question, but it mostly sounds like pleading. He finally brings himself to lift his gaze, and Matsuda’s answer is clear before he even speaks a word. It’s the way he shrinks into his chair. The way his pitying eyes look up at him.

“Oh, I’d like to, Ide, but…” Matsuda searches for the right excuse. “The case is really all I can think about right now. You know, so much has been going on.”

That’s not true, Ide thinks. It’s glaringly obvious Light has been running their investigation into the ground these past few weeks on purpose. Zero progress has been made for no reason in particular, other than Light realizing he no longer needs to keep up the charade.

…Ah. 

He hates this. 

“You’ve been sticking close to Light-kun lately.” He could really mess this up right now if he wanted to. Maybe he’d like to, maybe he— “Like tonight. This is how many nights in a row you’ve stayed over, now? If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was something going on between the two of you.” He adds a laugh, like it’s a joke.

Matsuda chokes on nothing, gasping for a response that doesn't quite come. Once he finds his breath, he stumbles out, “I don’t… I mean, why would you think that– It’s not like that.”

Matsuda’s a bad actor and it pisses him off that he thinks he can convince him of such an obvious lie. You really didn’t think anyone had noticed? And even though he already suspected their relationship, there’s something about confirming it that makes him feel so hopelessly foolish.

His rational side tugs at him and reminds him that Matsuda’s personal life isn’t any of his business. This isn’t him; he’s not so immature and spiteful. But there was a reason Aizawa wanted him to speak with Matsuda, right? Because this is necessary. Because this meeting with Near the day after tomorrow could go south and they can no longer put their trust in Light. Yes, that’s why he’s saying and feeling these things and nearly boiling over. It’s because Matsuda’s in potential danger and he’s probably in too deep to dig himself out. 

That’s right. If Matsuda were together with someone else, someone who didn’t risk sabotaging this case, who didn’t potentially plan on murdering all of them, anyone other than Light— that would be different. That would be okay. He could live with that. (And that might just be the most egregious lie he’s ever tried to tell himself.)

“Don’t you think it’s a little strange? Why would Light-kun suddenly spend all his time with—” Ide starts.

“What?” The mood shifts and Matsuda’s no longer shaken, no, he flicks his gaze up to meet Ide directly and the heat practically radiates off his words. “That someone would want to spend their time with someone like me? Is that so strange?”

Christ’s sake… “Come on, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then, what? What are you trying to say?” Matsuda’s fingers curl tight into the arms of his chair.

Ide drags a hand down his face. “Listen, it’s not like it’s a secret. Light is probably- If Light-kun is Kira, you shouldn’t be…” How the hell should he put it? “I don’t know how long this has been going on, but it seems recent. It can only mean bad news that he’s taken a sudden interest in you. It’s best to play it safe and keep your distance right now because I don’t know what he’s got planned. So can you– can you just do that? Okay?”

Matsuda stares at him in disbelief for a beat, then scoffs. “Hold on. Where did all that come from? We can trust Light-kun. I’m sure of that. If you knew him like I…” he trails off. “I don’t know why Near’s suddenly gotten into your head, but Light-kun needs us on his side. He tries not to let it show that the accusations bother him, but I know they do. I’ve seen him with his guard down. I can tell.”

If Ide were wiser, he’d hold his tongue before he says something he can’t take back, but the words spill from his mouth before he can stop them.

“You’re not special to him, you know. He’s just…” Shit. “He’s using you.”

An immediate wave of regret floods Ide as Matsuda rises from his chair and makes a few quick, pointed strides over to him, face flushed with bewilderment, a hot streak of anger.

Of course this wouldn’t go over well, he knew that. But it needed to be said. (And part of him wanted to say it.)

“What- what the hell do you know? You don’t know anything about- What gives you the right to—” Matsuda starts to launch into him, but Ide doesn’t give him the chance. 

“For god’s sake– Wake up! We’re worth more dead than alive to him! And if what Aizawa says is right, Light’s taking this next opportunity at Yellow Box to prove that.”

“‘Aizawa’…?” Matsuda stills then takes a step back, face twisting with some awful realization. “God, Ide, who cares what Aizawa thinks? He had it out for Light-kun the instant Near started feeding us whatever nonsense he thinks he knows about us. He was probably jumping at the chance to accuse him. Why would you listen to Aizawa? I mean, clearly you two have been talking…” 

Ide catches the trace of a sulk in his expression. 

Oh, come on. Is he really…?

It’s not like they were trying to exclude Matsuda. When Aizawa initially informed him of his suspicions they were in New York immersed in the riot fiasco at SPK’s base while Light and Matsuda were in L.A. It couldn’t be helped with how chaotic things got; there wasn’t any time for long distance discussion, much less risking Light overhearing it.

And sure, he could have looped Matsuda in later, but he wasn’t sure how much credit he wanted to give Near’s deductions when he never held a high opinion of him in the first place. And maybe, more truthfully, he didn’t want to take the plunge and try to convince Matsuda that the man he idolizes isn’t who he seems. Didn’t want to open up that can of worms and make their relationship any worse than it already was. …And another part of him silently hoped Matsuda would figure it out on his own.  

So, no, they weren’t intentionally keeping him out.

Well. Matsuda wouldn’t have listened, anyway. Just like now. Just like now, right? 

Ide takes a long look at him, and the longer he does, the more he’s aware of the invisible wall that separates them. It’s a barrier he helped build brick by brick. Anything he says now would only fall on deaf ears. 

Oh. He’s ruined it, hasn’t he?

Then what’s the use in trying? “Yes, Aizawa and I have been talking. Because this is important, and I’m not ready to watch us die at the hands of Yagami Light.”

“I don’t know why you’re telling me all this,” Matsuda says to the floor.

“I’m cluing you in. That’s what you wanted, right? Don’t blame me that it’s not what you want to hear.”

“Well, you’re wrong. You’re wrong about Light-kun.”

It’s a weak rebuttal, and Matsuda seems to know so. And then it dawns on Ide.

“You’re scared it’s true,” he realizes out loud. “That he is Kira. Some part of you knows he is, and…”

“I—” Matsuda falters, going a bit pale. His voice comes out low and stilted. “No one wants Light-kun to be Kira. Even Aizawa admitted he’d rather not believe it.”

“No. This is different.” Ide feels his stomach drop through the carpet as words tumble out of him. “You don’t mind that he’s Kira, right? So long as you don’t have to be confronted with it. You’re content living a lie so long as you get to keep playing out this… whatever it is with him. A part of you knows, you know. We’re all at risk, and yet…” 

Then, before he can stop it, “How selfish.”

It’s a mistake the instant it leaves his mouth. 

It cracks, breaks like glass. That’s the only way to describe the face Matsuda shows him. And Ide never wants to see it again, much less be the cause of it. 

“You don’t know anything. So stop talking like you do.” Matsuda’s shaking. It’s a type of anger Ide's never seen from him before. Fragile, as though he could fall apart at a moment’s notice, but the thorniness in his stare negates it. Cuts straight through Ide. It stings.

Matsuda throws his coat over his arm and reaches out behind him, fingers scrambling as they search for the door handle. “And stay the hell away from me.”

The slam of the front door booms like heavy thunder. The shock of it runs through Ide’s body, and all he can do in the following silence is stand where Matsuda left him at the center of the floor, bathed in the cold, artificial light of the monitors. He can’t move. Where is there to go? What is there to do? He failed. The situation crumbled away in his hands when he was supposed to shelter it, preserve it. 

It’s all over and he can’t fix it.

Long legs appear in Ide’s periphery, snaking past him. He remains fixed in place, eyes following each casual stride across the carpet. The movement is surreal, somehow. Dreamlike. But judging by the way his gut sinks, it’s more likely a nightmare. 

Light pauses when he reaches a desk at the far end of the room. Runs his fingers down a stack of papers sitting there. He plucks out a sheet and files it into its correct folder, going through the routine motions. Like everything is normal.

Eventually, he looks up from the paperwork. “Oh, Ide-san. I didn’t realize you were still here.” 

Like hell you didn’t.

Light continues, “What are you doing standing alone in the dark like that?” 

He can’t make a sound, voice caught in his throat. The room tilts and shakes and he fears his legs might just give out from under him. How long was he—? Did he hear all that? How stupid, of course he did, of course… 

How careless to let what was meant to be a level-headed talk with Matsuda devolve into an argument and to let it happen here of all places. Ide forces out a breath and closes his eyes, grounding his weight down into his feet in an attempt to steady himself. Even if he’s unintentionally confessed his suspicions about Light to Light himself, he’ll have to act on the assumption he didn’t hear anything. He’ll have to. That’s the smart choice. Probably.

“I was about to head out. The incident reports took me longer than I thought. Just checking to make sure I didn’t forget anything before I leave,” Ide says. He’s pretty sure he says. He couldn’t hear the words as he spoke them, their sound muffled by his pulse throbbing in his head. He hopes there was some semblance of normalcy in his tone. Hopes Light, perceptive as he is, might look past his flimsy act.

Before he can form another half-baked lie, the spindly form of Ryuk emerges from the center of the wall. Ide’s not sure he’ll ever get used to that; his figure impossibly tall and thin, ever-lurking through the halls, sometimes perched in the corner of the ceiling like a spider. Could almost mistake him for something human if you only caught a glimpse of him. He looms over what’s probably a doomed investigation. A god of death suddenly dropping into their lives doesn’t exactly forebode good things to come, he figures. 

Ide stares into that ghoulish face, like if he looks long enough the shinigami will reveal what he knows, show some mercy and end this madness. As if it were that easy. Ryuk’s made it clear he has no interest in helping or hurting them, preferring to sit back and enjoy the show. Ide doesn’t really get it. Is watching them be led around in circles until their likely demise all that entertaining?

Ryuk’s impenetrable, mask-like expression towers over him from up on the wall, and as Ide’s eyes travel down, he’s met with Light standing below, smiling calmly, falsely. Somehow more unreadable than the supernatural being hanging above his head. It all at once becomes terribly clear to Ide. The unfairness of it all. How the cards have been stacked against them from the start.

“That’s odd.” Light lifts his chin and feigns a glance around the room. “Matsuda-san implied he was going to work late and spend the night here at HQ. I heard the door slam. Maybe he stepped out to get some air.” His gaze trails over to Ide. “Do you know where he went?”

“Yeah. He's not coming back.” He didn’t intend to be so curt, but he can’t veil what he knows anymore. (What happened to the ‘smart choice’?) Whatever. If Light can see through him, and he surely can, then what’s the point in keeping up the act? The urge to put everything out in the open only builds, because screw tiptoeing around this and screw leaving their fates up to Near. Kira is probably standing right in front of him and he could easily tell him so, unwise as that would be.

Light observes him for a moment, then folds his arms over his chest. He relaxes into the tense atmosphere with ease. He’s too confident, too smug, though he’d never let it show on his face. But Ide can feel it. It seeps out of him.

“You care for him, don’t you?” Light asks, but it isn’t a question. “Matsuda-san.”

“Not particularly.”

Light closes his eyes and moves past the bluff, unconvinced. “It seems to bother you when he and I spend time together.”

There's good reason for that. Ide swallows the waver rising in his throat because Light doesn’t need to hear it, doesn’t need to know he’s getting to him because he isn't. He’s not so easily intimidated. “Matsuda’s prone to trouble, so I try to look out for him, that’s all. We all do. He’s easy to worry about. Especially… especially when he’s not acting like himself.”

“Oh? That’s interesting. Because to me…” Light makes a point to look him in the eye, surveying him coolly. “He seems more himself these days than ever before.” 

Liar. Heat rises up Ide's collar. He feels his composure slip because that’s not true, Light doesn’t know, couldn’t know. “No, he’s—”

“He’s become more actively involved in the case because I’m making an effort to include him. That’s what Matsuda-san wants. All he’s ever wanted, isn’t it? It’s a pity he can’t see what a great asset he is. Then again, I’m sure years of being discounted by his own team haven’t helped that mindset, now have they?” Light pauses when he takes notice of the anger Ide didn’t realize was so blatantly displayed on his face, then gestures with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please. Go ahead.”

…  

There’s nothing to refute because all of that is true. And there isn’t a single thing Ide could argue that would give him the upper hand, not up against someone like Light. He knows that.

So all he comes up with is, “Don’t get close to him.”

Light eyes him.

A shiver runs down Ide's spine. He revises his statement. “For now. What I mean is, yes, it’s a good thing Matsuda’s stepping up his efforts with the case, but Aizawa’s concerned because we don’t see much of him lately. We think it’d be better to focus on regrouping before the 28th, since… Well, we don’t know what to expect.”

“I understand your unease about this upcoming meeting, but try not to worry too much. Regardless of what Near has to show us, I’ll do everything in my power to keep this investigation running smoothly,” Light replies.

It’s a clean-cut answer typical of Light. It's also play-acted. Scripted. And Ide can barely stomach what he now knows to be hollow words. He digs his nails into his palm. The piercing burn makes him wince, yet he doesn’t release his grip. Just- anything to change this. Anything to knock that mask off Light’s face. 

“‘Running smoothly’. Right. You’ve kept it running so smoothly for us the last five years, haven’t you?” He’s walking on thin fucking ice. Even so, he tries to maintain the bite behind his words. “And this meeting. You’re so eager to just go along with what Near wants. But is that really alright? Things might not pan out the way you expect.”  

This is very stupid. Oh, he’s aware. He shouldn’t be gambling his own life by letting his spite get the better of him and provoking Light. Damned if it doesn’t feel good, though. Despite his better judgment and hammering heart, Ide keeps his head high and holds Light’s gaze as though they’re standing on equal ground. “I don’t exactly trust Near, but he’s L’s successor and he’s clever. If you underestimate him, you might find yourself playing right into his hands. Have you accounted for that?”

He swears he catches Light’s demeanor go sour, but it’s immediately corrected with a smile. A smile… that masquerades as normal and reassuring, the face of the leader of this investigation, a face he’s come to know as the second L through the years, but there’s something wrong with it. The shadow of something cruel paired with gentle eyes. It’s frightening. 

“Something as important as this—” Light leans forward, the motion sudden and sharp, and Ide can’t help but flinch. “I’ve accounted for everything. Anything less would be an insult to all we’ve worked for. I make it a point to be prepared. I wonder if you can say the same, Ide-san?” 

Light’s words are acidic and it’s unlike him, though Ide has no idea what’s “like” Light at all anymore, the line between real and fake irreversibly blurred. Light seems to realize this and softens. He redresses himself in his usual persona as though Ide never witnessed that hint of venom at all. “Well, I suppose you’ve done all you can. There’s nothing left to do but wait until the 28th and see. I’m sure Near won’t let anything happen to us if he’s as confident as he sounded on the call.” 

The message is crystal clear. It’ll go exactly as planned. Just accept your fate willingly, because there’s no escape for any of you.

“And what might ‘happen’?” The question leaves Ide’s mouth before he can consider whether he really wants to know the answer.

Light looks past him, like he’s of no importance at all. Like he may as well already be dead. “Hopefully nothing of note,” he says, and it falls on Ide’s ears like a threat. Don’t trouble yourself attempting anything unnecessary— it won’t work anyway. “With any luck, the investigation ends tomorrow.” His fingers trail across the surface of the desk beside him, absentmindedly brushing over piles of cords and dried-up ballpoint pens. Rings stained in the wood from years of coffee cups and late nights. Ide feels the sudden urge to yank his hand away; he doesn’t get to touch that, those pieces of history. Not when it doesn’t mean a damn thing to him and means everything to them.

Light hums. “I know you don’t trust me, and I don’t hold it against you. But you know…” He turns to look out the window, profile doused in shadow. “It doesn’t matter if you believe I’m Kira or not, because it’s not really about that, is it?”

Ide didn’t expect “Kira” to roll off Light's tongue so casually, for him to bring it up himself. And now he’s drowning here, out of his depth. In so deep he’s lost his footing. Left to blindly fend for himself in this dark room.

“I never said… What are you getting at?”

Light almost seems disappointed he can’t keep up. He lets out a small sigh. “Aizawa-san doesn’t exactly hide his distrust for me. Mogi-san also seems to have gradually… Well, you understand. You’ve observed it.” Light leans back against the wall, infuriatingly at ease. “Their suspicions have only grown over the course of our getting in contact with Near. Believe me, I’m aware. But that Ide-san would turn against me so quickly; why is that? I wasn’t under the impression you valued Near’s opinion much. Was it just Aizawa’s word that convinced you? No, I don’t think that’s the case, either. You’re not the type to be swayed by the majority. In fact, you’re a fairly individualistic thinker. That’s why I’m starting to think your eagerness to suspect me is just an excuse.”

The surrounding monitors drone with a low buzz, filling the space, mixing with Light’s voice and becoming an unbearable cacophony of sound. Sound Ide doesn’t want to hear. 

Light doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He needs to shut his mouth, stop—

“I’m right, aren’t I?” 

“No–” Ide catches the rise in his voice and sucks in his breath. Exhales. Starts over. “No, you’re not right. ‘Excuse’. Why would I need an excuse?” He knows the answer, and Light surely does as well. What a stupid question.

“It’s easier for you if I’m Kira. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have the right to warn Matsuda-san to stay away from me. You wouldn’t have a right to say anything at all, would you? It’s an excuse I’m sure you’re grateful to have.”

That hits a bullseye he struggles to grapple with. 

Light strides towards him. “But it won’t work forever.” He steps closer and closer, still. Some innate survival instinct rises up in Ide’s lungs and spirals him into high alert, filled with the burning need to escape. But then the threat’s already brushed past him, out of view. Light tells him quietly, “If you hold onto something so tightly, it’ll only slip away.”

Matsuda’s slipping away from him. He knows. He’s known for some time.

“It’s fine if you don’t trust me,” Light repeats. “But really, isn’t it miserable being so bitter? You don’t know one way or another if I am Kira, you’re just using it to claim the moral high ground and justify your own jealousy. Looking down on Matsuda-san while you’re no better…”  

Light’s next words slide under his breath— “How selfish.” 

Ide’s mind goes blank, the sudden belief washing over him that any effort is fruitless. There’s no way forward when every move he’s faced with is perfectly choreographed, each word smooth as velvet, impossible to match and piercing him exactly where it stings. Light’s steps grow softer on the carpet as he walks away, and each faded sound ignites a spark of fear. Cements the knowledge that he’s being left for dead.

Light pauses under the doorway leading to the hall and turns to him. “You’re welcome to sleep here if you don’t want to travel in this rain. Last I checked, it’s coming down out there.” It’s the right thing to offer in this situation. It’s courteous. It’s the kind of person Yagami Light has always been, and the contradiction it presents, the fact he’s kept this act up year after year after year, unsettles Ide to his core. 

Raspy laughter leaves Ryuk’s gash of a mouth, reminding Ide of his presence. When he looks up, the gangly creature’s already phased back through the wall. That awful deep and coarse sound lingers, however, echoing in his ears.  

“No, I…” He hates the way his voice rattles in his throat. “No, I’m heading home.”

“Goodnight, Ide-san.” Light gives him one last look over his shoulder before disappearing down the corridor. 

___________

Tokyo’s never been so empty.

Not a soul around. Not in rain like this. It comes down in relentless sheets, drumming off the top of his umbrella like bullets. It's all he can hear. He can barely see. And he could laugh— he really could laugh. It might as well be like this; it figures, doesn’t it? Who the hell cares anymore?

Ide’s eyes travel up the surrounding high-rises and lead him to a dark pit of sky. Cold water pelts down on his slacks and trickles into his shoes, leaving him shivering. Surely a damp and sorry sight, even with the help of the umbrella. It hardly matters. All that matters right now is that he continues to follow the path of street lamps lining the sidewalk, his guiding light on route to the station. Maybe things will start to make sense again once he reaches that familiar place. Maybe this is just a shitty dream and he’ll wake up.

That’s when he spots him. A slouched figure under the alcove of an office building, taking shelter from the rain best he can. Ide shares a small moment of pity for the poor guy who got caught in the storm. Just two idiots out at this hour with no one to pick them up—

“Ah.” 

Of course. Looking closer, it’s Matsuda. He stares down at his feet. Damp clothes sticking to his frame. It’s really him.

Matsuda. Ide turns on his heel and makes his way towards his new destination, thoughts traveling faster than his feet can carry him. Shoes slapping wet pavement. Matsuda lifts his head to the sound and startles. He jerks his head to scan the street in the opposite direction and seems to seriously consider making a break for it, but must decide against it. Instead, he resigns himself to backing up into the wall, like if he makes himself small enough he could disappear.

“Forgot your umbrella?” Ide asks, raising his voice to be heard over the heavy rain.

There’s no answer. Matsuda won’t look at him.

“I always tell you, you have to check the weather forecast before stepping out—” Ide stops himself. This isn’t helping. “It’s…” He rolls up the sleeve of his jacket to check his watch, daring to take a few steps closer. “Half past midnight. Let’s go, we’ll just make it. Last train leaves one A.M.” He tilts his head and beckons Matsuda over, offering him a place next to him under his umbrella.

No answer, still. 

“How are you going to get home otherwise? Call a taxi?” No. He knows very well Matsuda could (will) turn around and head straight back to Light’s apartment. “You can’t go out in this, you’ll get soaked to the bone and catch cold if you haven’t already—”

“I’m waiting it out.”

“It’s not stopping anytime soon. Come on, already.”

“Ide, just– Go home. Go. You can’t just…” Matsuda spits out the words, exhaustion seared raw and hurt into his voice. His clothes drip from his body and he shudders. “You can’t just come up to me like nothing happened and pretend that’s fair.”

“…”

It isn’t fair. What he said to him back at headquarters wasn’t fair, either. 

He recalls Light’s words, “You wouldn’t have a right to say anything at all … It’s an excuse I’m sure you’re grateful to have.” They weigh heavily in the pit of his stomach. “…justify your own jealousy…"  

In the end, what Light said is true; he is hopelessly jealous and selfish and he doesn’t have any right to say this. He doesn’t. 

But—

“You were right. When you said I don’t know anything. I don’t know what’s going on, not really. And that… terrifies me,” Ide says, honesty accompanied by a tremble. “The only thing I do know is that I want all of us to be safe because god knows what’s coming. And I…” He focuses his attention on water droplets bouncing off nearby asphalt and takes in a long breath of cold, wet air. “I just don’t want to see you come into harm’s way or get tangled up in anything bad.” 

He motions Matsuda over to join him one last time. Maybe it’s stupid to keep holding out hope, but this time might be different. “It’s cold and I don’t want to leave you alone out here.” Please. “So, please.”

The movement is hesitant, but Matsuda gradually shifts from his spot on the wall. His coat hangs on him, waterlogged, and so he opts to remove it as he makes his way forward, peeling it off with a final tug of his sleeve. He moves wordlessly to stand beside Ide under his umbrella, still unwilling to meet his eyes, but Ide exhales a sigh of relief nonetheless. The warm presence next to him feels nothing short of a miracle. 

They walk through the city side by side in silence for a long while, Ide’s left shoulder growing increasingly damp as he shifts to make room for Matsuda. But he doesn’t mind. In fact, the pounding rain helps distract from the stretch of quiet that lingers between them. 

Sooner than expected, their steps echo off high beamed ceilings and the rainfall becomes a muted pitter patter as they enter the station without a single word exchanged the entire way. Ide wouldn’t have known where to start, anyway. All of his words left him when he was drowning in that room with Light some thirty minutes ago. 

Under shelter at last, he lifts the umbrella and folds it up, surprised to glance Matsuda’s way and find him staring back, finally meeting his gaze. Matsuda looks him up and down, taking in his drenched form now lit by the fluorescent glow of electronic signboards and timetables. Then, unexpectedly, he breaks the silence. “…Some good the umbrella did you,” he remarks.

It’s true. In the end, there wasn’t much point in carrying it, not in a rainstorm like this. But the company isn’t bad. Makes him grateful he brought it today. “It’s better than nothing.” A smile tugs at his lips, but quickly dissipates. Matsuda’s looking at him, talking to him, he should— “About what I said before, back at HQ, I—”    

“You want to know about it, don’t you?” Matsuda interrupts him. A train running in the opposite direction races past, rumbling rhythmically along the tracks. It nearly makes Ide miss Matsuda’s next words. “Me and Light-kun.”

Whether he heard correctly or not, he decides to touch the subject before it has a chance to fade away. “…How long have you and…” 

Matsuda shrugs and looks off across the empty platform. “A few months, give or take.” There’s a pause as he shifts and backs himself up against a nearby pillar. He fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve then straightens his shirt, hands smoothing out creases in damp cotton. Stalling. He finally says, hushed, “It started not long after the Chief passed.” The train hums and whirs somewhere in the distance, its sound trailing off Matsuda’s voice and into the night. “You know, I think a piece of Light-kun died with his father. And what’s left- I’m not even sure what it is. But it’s lonely. And I noticed it and I understood it, and…” 

He catches Ide’s gaze, prompting him to stand a little taller, a defensiveness seeping into his tone. “It’s not exactly like we’re seeing each other. Not in any kind of official way. It’s just, we needed each other, I think. He needs me. And you… You have the wrong idea about him, Ide.”

Ide flicks over the indents still raw in his palm from earlier, the urge to dig his nails back in rising. He holds his tongue, though a part of him wants to stride over and shake Matsuda by the shoulders. Wake him up and make him see this picture isn’t as pretty as Light’s painted it. 

“Because he gave me purpose. And kindness,” Matsuda continues. His eyes soften as though recalling a warm memory, fingers finding their way to his heart and splaying over air dried fabric. “He showed me I have a place here. In this investigation— a reason for being here that makes it all worth something. Makes someone like me worth something.”

Ide winces at that. Matsuda moves past it like it’s nothing. Like his lack of worth is an obvious fact that requires no debate. “Before then, I didn’t know what I was doing, or- or if anything I did mattered at all. Life was really… It was terrifying. The world was terrifying and I was barely holding it together.” He chuckles through that last statement like it’s hyperbole, but it’s a forced out sound. A sad sound that tells a more truthful story.

“I didn’t know the case weighed so heavily on you,” Ide lies. A scummy lie he’s fed himself throughout the years. The Kira Investigation weighs heavily on all of them, of course it does, and he knows very well Matsuda was never exempt. But at some point he made the decision to take every joking remark and cheerful smile at face value. Pretended their lived nightmare of a reality didn’t affect Matsuda like it did the rest of the Task Force. Because it’s Matsuda, right? He doesn’t get bogged down by such things, nor think about them too deeply in the first place. 

What a load of bullshit. He can admit on some level they had probably… neglected him.

Even now, as Matsuda presents him with a smile, it’s only a sheer veil of a thing. It can’t mask the face lined with worry that lies beneath, so close to the surface. So clearly drowning in it all. 

Hell, Ide’s not sure he’d be immune to it, either; if someone special like Light started showing him attention during those darkest times. He’d probably be scrambling to keep it. Have the same look that lingers behind Matsuda’s eyes now, desperately crying out—

Please don’t take it away from me.

Matsuda exhales shakily and clutches tighter at the jacket draped over his arm. “Our task force never really mattered in the long run, did we? Left on our own without L, we didn’t get close. Five entire years of nothing. God, it just- it all felt so hopeless. And I would sometimes wonder why we even bother trying. It was always like that, every day coming into work. I mean, didn’t you feel it…?”    

He did. Every day. But right now —and perhaps it’s simply the clarity that comes before imminent death— he’s realizing those are the most cherished days of his life. Matsuda’s presence every early morning, tired afternoon, and coffee-fueled night, being the bright point. He loved it. He really loved all of it. These last few years were an endless maze riddled with dead ends; public opinion turning against them, and the last dwindling hope of those still willing to stand against Kira weighing on their shoulders all while they steadily lost their own hope. And yet he wouldn’t take it back for anything.

He’d relive it a hundred times over, if it meant Matsuda was in arm’s reach. By his side on that couch each night. Those wavering days are all so terribly dear to him, but they’re slipping through his fingers, so he’ll hold onto them until he can’t anymore. Until they all cease to exist. He wonders what sort of face he’s making as he croaks out, “Those times weren’t all bad, though. I might even… I’ll miss them. Very much so.”

“Stop doing that.”

“What?”

Matsuda shivers, looking over Ide with careful glances. “You keep talking like we’ll never see each other again. You don’t- don’t really think…” he stammers. Something fearful flickers behind his eyes. “You don’t actually believe we’re all going to die in a day? That’s- There’s no way Light-kun would let that happen.”

Ide can’t answer that. Can barely stand to listen to it.

Matsuda searches his eyes. “He told me it would be okay. He told me. Aren’t we supposed to trust him? I mean– I do trust him, I…” When Ide can only respond with a pained expression, Matsuda slumps back into the pillar and shakes his head weakly. He holds eye contact with Ide until he can’t, until his head falls to stare at the ground. “Why the hell did you have to say all that stuff earlier, Ide?” He breathes out a hollow sigh. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“I don’t think any of us do.” I certainly don’t. Ide tentatively reaches a hand out, and when Matsuda doesn’t shy away, he rests it on his shoulder. “But you know, you… You do have a choice. You always have a choice.” He’s half convincing himself. He’s not good at this, he knows he isn’t, but he’s standing here in front of Matsuda right now and he owes it to them both to at least try. “And we need you more than you realize. More than ever, we need you with us. Could really use your quick thinking, your optimism. It almost makes coming to work each day bearable. And you’ve got one hell of a sharp shot, much quicker and more accurate than I could ever hope to be and I’ve been with the NPA, what? Twice as long? So that’s…” He trails off with a faint laugh. Matsuda doesn’t raise his head and the silence that follows erupts with pounding rain, overflowing Ide’s senses until it’s too much and he needs to fill it with something, anything. 

“It’s more than just needing you or requiring your help, I want you… I…” 

Matsuda takes in that unexpected admission with startled eyes and raised brows— an expression Ide can’t get a read on much to his discomfort. It leaves him wishing he could swallow back his words. Though soon enough, Matsuda’s surprise melts into a more familiar expression; a glimpse of the person he used to walk home with on late winter nights like this one. That playful gleam in his eyes and the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. A teasing grin Ide knows all too well, having been on the receiving end of it on many occasions. But unlike the times in the past when they were only poking at each other and bantering without any real stakes, Ide can see the genuine question start to form on Matsuda’s lips that he is not at all prepared to answer. It dawns on him how hot his face feels. He hadn’t realized—

He cuts Matsuda off before he can speak a word. “We all want you here. Got it?” He internally chastises himself. Christ’s sake. This isn’t a damn love confession. 

He’s not sure it’s a very convincing recovery as Matsuda continues to give him that same look, eager to prod for more. But much to his relief, he eventually gives a slight nod in response and that’s all Ide can really ask for at this point. His face burns. In an attempt to cool himself down and regain some composure, he presses his icy fingers to his cheeks in a motion he hopes is discreet. But Matsuda only leans back against the pillar and lets out a laugh through his nose he seemed to be holding back.

“You’re an idiot, Ide.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you just hide it well.” He flicks his gaze up to him and smiles. “I don’t hate that side of you, though. In fact, I think I like it better.”

Ide’s face heats up all over again. What is he going on about? “I can’t say it makes me happy to be complimented for being an idiot, Matsuda. I do my best so you don’t see this side of me. You’re not supposed to like it.” 

Matsuda laughs, that lifting sound. “Yes, yes, Ide-san. Don’t worry, it’s actually very cute,” he teases, stepping forward to close the distance and give him a playful pat on the back. And Ide’s instantly reminded of a version of Matsuda from several years ago. Younger, more chipper. “You know when you get all flustered, your ears go bright red.”

“Shut up.”

“…I really do like that side of you. It’s honest. You should show it to me more often.”

…

God, why does he do this to him?

Ide’s heart trills in his chest. It’s warm and real and strangely bittersweet. “And you don’t bother to hide that side of you at all. You’re a lot of trouble, you know that?” he quips. A feeling he can’t put a name to tempts to wrack through his body. Not quite a sob, not quite a chill. But it’s there, too overwhelming to ignore, washing over him. It’s whispering to him, urging him to pull Matsuda in close. Hold onto him and never let him go. “…But the trouble isn’t so bad. I like having it around.” 

Matsuda doesn’t respond to that, only looks at him, unreadable emotion settling into his features. Face flushed with the sting of a cold wind rolling in. Hair damp on his face.

“Ah, your hair’s dripping.” Ide raises his hand before he can think and wipes a droplet running down Matsuda’s forehead. His fingers instantly remember the feeling of that soft hair as he brushes it out of the way. Silk in his fingertips. The movement is still so natural after all this time he forgets to pull away, lost in the closeness, and he shouldn’t but he’s begging, please, please don’t end, because, god, it hasn’t been like this in so long. And this may be the last time. That final thought sinks into his brain. The cold, wet wind as well; it all at once seems to bore straight through him, seeping into his chest. It aches.

It’s only when he catches Matsuda staring that he snaps out of it and starts to draw away, a voice in his head yanking him back to reality and demanding to know what the hell he thinks he’s doing. But a tug at his sleeve stops him and inexplicably there’s a warm weight resting in the palm of his hand, Matsuda leaning into his touch. It’s unexpected and maybe he’s imagining it, but he’d give anything for it to be real. He lets his fingers continue to trace through rain-soaked bangs. Yellow light reflects on wet concrete and a siren echoes far, far away, its sound hidden somewhere in the rainfall. When it passes, the platform is quiet. So quiet. It’s dark and empty and somehow the safest he’s felt in days.

Matsuda’s head dips slightly forward, perhaps accidentally, but it brings them face-to-face. And it feels good to be so close. Their combined breath lightly exhaled, hot against cool air, against each other's lips—  

“If you hold onto something so tightly, it’ll only slip away.”

A flash of white floods the station followed by the squeal of brakes as their train comes rushing to the platform. There’s a weight. Ide feels it leaning into him, his forearm holding it back, and he’d— Oh. He’d… 

He holds Matsuda back. They were about to… And he pushed him away.

For a few moments, they stay like that, an unanswered question held in the space Ide created between their bodies and regret trickling cold down his back at the realization of what he’d just done. The fact that he allowed Light’s words to get in his head ties a knot in his stomach that only tightens with each passing second. Makes him feel sick. And maybe worst of all, Matsuda looks surprised but not entirely hurt, like rejection was expected. 

Their train car hums across the tracks as it comes to a slow halt, followed by a short jingle of bells and chimes. An automated voice plays over the intercom and echoes through the platform announcing the stop. This is what he’d wished for. The doors slide open. It’s what he’d wanted, the scenario he’d desperately clung onto. Convinced himself that if the two of them could make it to the station together and board their train, then everything would be okay. If he could just get Matsuda to do this, things would find a way to be normal again and life might go back to how it was.

They both step inside and it should feel like old times, but it doesn’t. They ride the same train together they have for years and watch the same Tokyo dressed in night pass by, and everything tells him it should feel the same, but it doesn’t.

It doesn’t. And he’d be kidding himself to believe it ever would again.

___________

All these monotonous years being strung along, Light playing the part and all of them falling for it, hook, line, and sinker has always led to this. This ending. Yes, that’s probably true.

Ide finds himself walking in no particular direction since getting off at his stop. Killing time. Each step drops through the ground, sinking deeper into the earth. The usual crowds will come soon, flooding the crosswalks. People headed to work like nothing’s wrong, and if he keeps walking like he is now, maybe he can delude himself into believing it’s another normal day for him as well. 

He watches as the rain gradually lessens to a few sparse drops falling from the sky and wonders in passing if Matsuda made it home from his stop okay. 

He handed his umbrella over to Matsuda when they parted. He needed it more. If he spent another second unsheltered from the rain, he’s almost certain the guy would catch hypothermia.

It’s been an hour since he left the station. No, longer than that. Detoured up one side street, then another. And now he’s not sure how long it’s been. Long enough that the night’s been eaten away by the morning sun threatening to rise over the city, tomorrow approaching far too soon. It only serves as a reminder of this intangible countdown, that what’s coming is inevitable and he’s not even sure what “it” is, only that something horrible is going to happen and they may very well be powerless to stop it.

Would it be too shameful to run away? He could ask the others to abandon this case and never make an appearance at the final scene, the supposed life-or-death climax. Hide away somewhere… Of course, they’d be “found” eventually, though, wouldn’t they? They’re not safe anywhere and it would only be a matter of time, a number of strokes written in ink. No use. 

So, no, he won’t run. As appealing as it sounds right now as day breaks on the empty street, as he finally makes his way home to his apartment with icy blue light spilling over his back and wet asphalt under his shoes— only to walk back to the train station and into Light’s clutches in a number of hours. Nowhere else to go.

…What a sad existence. But there’s no escaping it.

Besides, if he were to run, it’s not like Matsuda would agree to come with him, anyway. 

It’s just a small daydream before the end of days.

Chapter Text

_____________________

January 26, 2010

Just a little further, a little more. One more step and twist and turn. One final act.

Ryuk lingers in Light's periphery. His ink black figure bleeds into the shadows that fill his bedroom as the night grows longer.

Near sent the pictures yesterday morning. They light up his face, flooding the screen of his laptop as he scans them over and soaks them in. Yellow Box Warehouse, located on the southeastern edge of Daikoku Wharf— an abandoned storage space enclosed in metal walls. From his research, it used to be a transfer facility for crude oil. You could pass by it hundreds of times and not take notice of it, and perhaps he has; it looks so innocuous. The lot is largely empty besides the structure itself, add to that a surrounding chain link fence and similar looking storehouses spanning along the pier. Most of them gutted and left deserted for who knows how long. 

Yellow Box has only one entrance, one exit, just as Near said. One rusted red door. A smile spills over his lips; he can’t help it.

“You sure seem confident lately,” Ryuk says. The gravelly words rake over the slight mock in his tone. 

He's learned to tune it out over the years. Light continues to click and scroll, not bothering to pull his eyes from the screen. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

Ryuk perches at the foot of his bed, claws absentmindedly flicking through the pages of a Weekly TV Guide magazine— clearly bored. He turns a glossy page as he replies with a grunt and nothing more, and Light’s grateful for the lack of response. It’s a welcome pause in Ryuk’s distracting chatter.

“You know, there’s one thing I just don’t get.” 

Ah, he spoke too soon. 

You don’t need to ‘get’ anything, Ryuk. It’s none of your concern. He opens the next folder containing a new bundle of images. “And what’s that?” He grants him a reply, though his words are barbed.

“Why bother with that idiot? You keep inviting him around every night.”

Matsuda, huh? Ryuk should know better than to ask such pointless questions. 

“He’s a fairly inoffensive presence to have around. He might even prove useful. Because of that, if he ends up living through this… Well, it doesn’t matter to me either way.” While it’s not a lie, it’s in no way the whole truth. But there’s no need to elaborate so long as the response gets Ryuk off his back. Why should he have to explain himself to the shinigami, anyway?

“Heh, that’s pretty generous coming from you, Light. How touching. And a little careless. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft.”

Ryuk’s awfully mouthy tonight. “Is witnessing the creation of the New World not interesting enough for you, Ryuk? Watching public opinion completely shift in favor of Kira? Or governments across the world become my ally? I think I’ve provided you with more than enough entertainment, so I don’t know why you’re stuck on such a meaningless detail.”

Ryuk scoffs in amusement, unfurling his long limbs to lounge across the bed. “You were just downstairs arguing over that guy. Didn’t seem so meaningless to me.”

“I wasn’t arguing. I was confirming something.”

“And what’s that?” Ryuk mimics his earlier reply.

Ide and Matsuda; he’d caught their private conversation. Not that it could really be called “private”. He can’t believe Ide had the oversight to choose to talk with Matsuda here at headquarters. He knew the guy was embittered, but honestly… How utterly stupid. 

“I’m not ready to watch us die at the hands of Yagami Light.”

And so Ide’s obviously drawn his own conclusions, or at least what he’s wanted to conclude. In any case, it’s clear where his loyalties lie, and Light couldn’t care less. He’ll be glad to watch the life leave Ide’s eyes knowing he’s ripped someone precious from him.

“Without a doubt, Ide suspects me of being Kira.”

“Don’t most of them?” Ryuk chuckles.

At that, Light acknowledges him with a glare, but doesn’t indulge him with the satisfaction of getting under his skin for long.

He returns his focus to the laptop and continues as though Ryuk never spoke. “…And he’s also infatuated with Matsuda, more so than I thought. He’d love nothing more than to successfully turn him against me. But his jealousy and his spite get him nowhere, because it seems Matsuda doesn’t return the same sentiment. In fact, something tells me Matsuda is far more sided with Kira than he lets on.”

Ryuk rolls over to lay on his side, back facing Light. The crumple of slick pages starts up again as his attention turns back to the magazine. “Are human relationships always this needlessly complicated?”

“Humans are complicated, Ryuk. That’s just human nature. And if you know the intricacies, you can play it to your advantage.”

“You’re scared it’s true. That he is Kira. Some part of you knows he is…” Ide had said.

Some part of Matsuda knows. Is that so?

“You don’t mind that he’s Kira, right? So long as you don’t have to be confronted with it. You’re content living a lie so long as you get to keep playing out this… whatever it is with him. A part of you knows, you know.”

It was the first half interesting thing to come out of Ide’s mouth. 

Light knows his part; he’s played the second L and worn it like a second skin for years. Longer than that, he’s played charades his entire reign as Kira, deceiving them all. Naturally, no one wants to be lied to, and his role as Kira is the ultimate betrayal to the Task Force. And then there’s Matsuda.

Matsuda who so desperately wants to be deceived. 

As Ide put it, Matsuda’s perfectly content deluding himself so long as he can remain by his side. Yes, that’s probably true. It’s also the most compelling thing about Matsuda. He’s considered the reality that he’s Kira and has chosen to overlook it, perhaps even accept it. And maybe if he chipped away at Matsuda’s defenses, drilled down to his center, he’d find someone who loves the fact that he’s Kira. …Maybe. While only a theory, the idea intrigues him to no end.

Ide talked to Matsuda. Then argued. Then said some really laughable things— things about morals and selfishness that were rich coming from him. And for the grand finale, he lost his composure and it all fell predictably to pieces. There was a moment where Light wondered if Matsuda might falter, might allow Ide to undo all his hard work, but he hadn’t managed to convince Matsuda. No, Matsuda stormed out and told Ide to stay away from him, because he trusts Light fully and unconditionally. Because of course he does. 

While it was a valiant effort on Ide’s part, Matsuda won’t be so easily pried from his grip. Besides, the rift between the other members of the Task Force and Matsuda is far too severe to mend at this point, and Ide only managed to deepen it, making his job that much easier. He didn’t even have to lift a finger.

It was enjoyable putting Ide firmly in his place after Matsuda left. Despite the passive front Ide puts up, he shows his hand far too readily. Easy to read, easy to rattle. That goes for all of them. At least L made it a fair game, played his cards close to his chest and put up a formidable act. Since his death, it’s all been such child’s play. And so Light expected his prediction that Matsuda would come crawling back to him after his confrontation with Ide to fall exactly into place, just like everything else.

But he’s late.

Matsuda was supposed to have his sulk in the rain then walk back to HQ. Supposed to be upstairs in his suite right now, joining him in his bed, kept in his vicinity after hours where no one else can see them. His absence is an anomaly, especially so close to such an important day.

—Well, it’s no matter. 

If he leads Matsuda a little further, in steps and spins and entrancing patterns until the dance is second nature to him, if he choreographs him through this final act, he may stick around for the encore. “Why bother with that idiot?” Whether it’s part curiosity, part experiment, or part of the plan, (or something he’s hanging onto for as long as he can justify it), he hasn’t decided. 

“Ryuk, I think you’ll enjoy what I have prepared.”

There’s a missing piece of the puzzle, and Matsuda might just fill it.

“Oh?” Ryuk acknowledges him with a glance over his feathered shoulder. “Then, I’m looking forward to it.”

___________

January 27, 2010

They’re the living dead.

The room may as well be empty already, the Task Force only occupying a temporary space. Those three. Aizawa, Ide, and—

… 

The jury’s still out on Matsuda.

Light leans against the back wall and sips his coffee as he surveys the room. Their positions are as usual; Aizawa and Ide sat at desks, Matsuda on the couch. Pale blue light indicative of the early hour spills in, stretching across monitors that line every square inch of wall, piles of cords, cheap beige colored carpet. They’ve made do without the resources of the high tech facility L once offered. Still, there’s always been a scrappy quality to their efforts here, in their make-shift HQ; doing things by the book when they can, but more often then not, flying by the seat of their pants. Even looking down at the coffee mug in his hand, it’s one of many, none alike, all brought from various households of the team.

It’s not such a bad little space, though. Worthy of some appreciation one last time. It’s not exactly sentimental, not quite that. Maybe a slight nostalgia. He’s acted in this scene hundreds of times, but today he’s watching from the wings. Monitoring. Ryuk is never far, a familiar shadow, and Light sinks back and enjoys his coffee, playing the role of observer alongside him. There’s a passing thought that if he were to turn and glance Ryuk’s way they might just both break into laughter, in on a cruel joke no one else is.

Tomorrow marks a clean slate. No more tethers, no more holding back. He’ll escape the monotony that’s imprisoned him these last five years. Though he’ll hand it to Near, the last several months, if not a pain in the neck, have at least been interesting. 

Tomorrow— everything changes.

Today— today, his tethers busy themselves with meaningless efforts. Religiously checking the news, writing reports, cataloging what little evidence they have, typing, pacing, breathing when they can. Busy work for the sake of busy work. They continue the daily routine in an effort to maintain some sense of normalcy, and Light supposes he can’t fault them for that. But when none of it matters, it’s sort of hard to watch.

It’s also disappointingly predictable. Near followed every line of action he thought he would and all the pieces fell seamlessly into place. Satisfying as it was, he didn’t think he’d so carelessly take the bait. Mikami was surveilled in no time at all. And now Light finds himself certain of Near’s plan. He’ll switch the notebook in Mikami’s possession with a replica, completely oblivious to the location of the real notebook. When Near proposed they meet in person, it was all but sealed; a confirmation of his and everyone else’s fates. 

Near set the stage, advanced each of his moves carefully, even managed to knock out a couple players —Mogi and Misa— negligible as they may be. He made his preparations, devised this scheme, and for what? To die? If Near’s efforts weren’t standing in the way of the New World, he’d pity it all for being such a terrible waste. And to think he’s supposed to be L’s successor. 

The other successor, his only other chance at a formidable opponent, died. It was only a matter of time, reckless as Mello was. He only ever proved to be a miserable nuisance who made things harder at every turn. …What he did to Sayu was unforgivable. At least Near has the decency to pretend he’s acting on the moral high ground. Mello was truly a waste of space, a degenerate criminal scumbag and he didn’t even get to kill him by his own hand, one of his biggest regrets to date. The coward blew himself up. And if it weren’t for him… If it weren’t for him. His father would be—

Yagami Soichiro wasn’t meant to die. Not like that, away from his wife and daughter, on a medical bed in another country, cold, stark light boring down on his weakened body. His plan went wrong, horribly wrong. It imploded in on itself with the one person he least wanted it to, and it tears him down the middle. 

His father’s death left a hole behind. An unanswered question. 

A part of Light thinks that, in time, his father would have come around to accepting Kira just as the rest of the world has. He would have understood eventually. His moral compass, strong as it was, would have guided him to the right answer. 

(And another part of Light, a stern voice in the back of his head, yanks him back to reality and reminds him that his father vehemently disapproved of Kira. He died disapproving of Kira. No other reality exists that’s not his own biased conjecture. He knows that. He knows, but—) 

He could have shown his father the world he always fought for. The world, despite all his dad’s best efforts, he never could have changed for good. Only he can, and he has. But his dad will never get the chance to see the perfect world he envisioned, not now. It was only a little further, a little more time, but it slipped through Light's fingers like sand. He slipped through. 

And it can’t have been in vain, can’t have been for nothing. He won’t let it be.

In these months without him, he often questioned why he kept the rest of the Task Force alive at all. It’d be as simple as giving the word to Takada. Their lives hang by a thread he’s eager to cut and the only reason they continue their fragile existence is Near. 

Speak of the devil. As if on cue, there’s a sharp ping followed by that familiar “N” glowing at the center of their screens. The others flinch —a reaction that occurs no matter how many times Near contacts them— and rise to their feet.

Light already knows why he’s calling. He wants to confirm the time and date once more before the big day. Perfect.

Anticipation simmers hot in his bones, adrenaline carrying his feet forward easily, eager to be sated. He moves past the other three, splitting them down the middle, and comes to stand in front of the microphone. He places his cup on the table and glides his fingers across the controls. Switches the mic on with a click. Abrupt static, then a beep as the call goes through and Near speaks first. 

“L?” 

“Yes?” 

There’s a short span of silence that follows, maybe a few seconds, but it stretches on forever. Light’s stare pierces through the screen, daring him to say it. 

“In regard to our meeting… The 28th at 1:00 PM is still alright?” 

Perfect. “Yes.” 

“And the previously agreed upon conditions of no communication devices like cell phones or wiretaps on the premises is okay with your team?”

“Our side never gave any conditions in the first place; it’s you who suspects me, so set whatever restrictions you feel you need to.” 

“Alright. Tomorrow, the 28th, it is.” 

“I look forward to it.”

“Likewise.”

The audio cuts out and the call ends. Just like that.

Aizawa makes no attempt to hide his wary gaze, and Ide, once indifferent, now shares in that distrust, his stare boring into his back. 

That’s fine. If they want to suspect him, suspect him all they want. They’re hardly a concern when the real enemy is Near. The rest are little more than an inconvenience, no, not even that— a background role. Part of the set dressing. 

The monitors go black, then return to their usual state of displaying various news stations, several reporting on Kira judgements. Light takes a moment to sip his coffee and admire his handiwork. The world already obeys Kira, Near. It’s not long before he gets to prove that point. He counts the hours. 

The future shines beautifully at his fingertips.

He spots his saucer on a nearby surface and rests his cup there. The hollow clink of porcelain rings out as it makes contact, making Ide jump at the sound. 

Jump. 

Is Ide… scared of him? 

…

Now that’s just too good. He manages to stifle a smirk, but it violently tugs at the corners of his mouth, threatening to slip through. Ahh, he could laugh. He’d really like to– He can’t, he can’t. Not yet. Instead, he moves across the room with a hop in his step, across sparse daylight trickling in through blinds and long shadows spilled over carpet. Yesterday’s rain seems to have cleared up as though welcoming the dawn of the New World.

Matsuda stares up at the screens, lost in their cold glow. His figure stands smaller than before, a vulnerability shaking his form ever so slightly. Matsuda could afford to play oblivious back when there were only talks of Near coming to Japan, but now he appears struck with a very real sense of fear as their inevitable face-to-face meeting with the SPK becomes cemented into reality.

Light strides past Ide and Aizawa, a couple of pawns standing idly by, and crawls his fingers across Matsuda’s back, pulling him in close by the shoulder. Matsuda jolts under his touch, wide eyes darting up to him. The same unease radiates behind him, Aizawa and Ide surely caught off guard by the gall of the action. 

It’s easy to ad-lib. Make it about reassurance. “Don’t look so downbeat, Matsuda-san. It's unlike you.” He wears a warm smile that melts the man under his grip. “I'm sure we'll come to an understanding with Near. He’s as eager to solve this case as we are, after all.” He takes the opportunity to glance behind him and meet Ide’s eyes from across the room.

Matsuda registers his words, then loads an appropriate reaction. “Oh, I’m alright…” He gives a sheepish look, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I’m probably just sleep deprived. I’m fine, really.”

“That’s good. Honestly, we could all use a good night’s rest before tomorrow’s meeting. Let’s turn in early if we can.”

He keeps his gaze fixed on Ide and digs his fingers into the fabric of Matsuda’s shirt. Maybe he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. But he’d like to watch this. The shift from anger to disgust to something bordering on envy in Ide’s expression scratches an itch in his ego. 

If anyone looks truly sleep deprived, it’s Ide. He probably overdid it in their chat last night, no, he knows he scared the living daylights out of him. 

Despite himself, he shoots a grin over his shoulder. And he’s aware it’s a little too wide, a little too indulgent, but it’s worth it. And it hardly matters when Ide will be laid out cold and unresponsive across the concrete floor of Yellow Box Warehouse in less than 24 hours. What sort of expression will he wear then? Plastered across his lifeless face? 

Light lets his hand wander down the length of Matsuda’s arm and he can feel him squirm beneath him, his discomfort clear at the intimacy of the gesture being displayed so out in the open, and yet… And yet he leans into the touch like he belongs there under his grasp. Exactly as he should be. 

What can Ide do at this point? He’s lost. He’s lost Matsuda, his and everyone’s lives— it’s over. And he wants Ide to know so. 

Bad luck, Ide. Oh well. 

Too little, too late.

He stands there helpless, opens his mouth as though he wants to say something, then promptly shuts it. The fear shaking his resolve outweighs any attempt to speak up. It’s hilarious. After a delicious stretch of this, Ide turns his back and takes his leave down the hall. 

What’s the matter? You should be grateful I let you live this long.

___________

He gave Takada the details for their meeting two days ago, on the night of the 25th at the Imperial Hotel. Passed the final order across to her in the form of a note. Penned the date, hour, and location on the small hotel notepad. 

Jan 28th - 1:00 PM
Daikoku Wharf,
Y.B. Storehouse

With that information, Mikami will appear outside the one and only entrance of Yellow Box to carry out God’s will. And he won’t be alone. 

Along with those simple details, he added one other instruction. It was an extra measure he’d been mulling over; a precaution— Takada’s bodyguards. He requested four to five of her guards armed and stationed at the pier out of sight, under strict orders only to intervene if any harm or interference should come to Mikami, anything that prevents him from completing his duty. If anything does impair Mikami and he’s unable to finish the job, they’re to enter the warehouse and follow Yagami Light’s orders as per Kira’s request. It’s to be made clear that like Takada Kiyomi, Yagami Light is a trusted ally of Kira. 

He’ll have no true alliances at the warehouse besides Mikami after all, and as dependable as he’s proven himself to be, he refuses to place all his eggs in one basket. If he’s not prepared on all fronts, if the plan isn’t fool-proof, there’s no point.

The guards are a last resort that he only put in place to be thorough. He’s almost certain Near will be too proud to apprehend Mikami once he starts writing, too confident his own simpleminded plan will be a success to stop him. In all likelihood, the guards’ presence will be unnecessary and that backup plan won’t go into action. It won’t need to. 

…But he wrote down the orders nonetheless.

He and Takada made idle chatter —“Are you busy? Does that mean you can’t stay the night?” “I’m afraid not, sorry. I’ll be busy with the NPA…”—  as he passed those death sentences across the table. 

And that was it. Near’s fate sealed in stone. The SPK. The Kira Task Force. So easily. 

Too easily. Something that night made him pause his movement, the weight of his hand resting on the slip of paper. He pulled it back and hastily added—

Tell T everyone except someone by the name Matsuda Touta.

He’d already written it and glided it across the table before acknowledging the full ramifications of the action. A move crawling with oversights. Irritation rose up his spine at such a mercy born from– what? His own desires? Takada’s raised brow after glancing over the words only poked at him more. Boiled the contradiction in his gut. He returned her skepticism with sharp eyes, and yet she still had the nerve to write out the word—

Why?

—in response.

He dragged the note back with more hostility than he’d intended, yanking it out from underneath Takada’s finely manicured fingertips. Because how dare she question him? Just do it. Can you not manage something so simple? I barely trust you to handle writing names and carrying out Kira’s message as it is, so why can’t you just shut up and do as I tell you? Is what he wanted to tell her. Instead, he scrawled with a tight grip—

He still has some use.

The ice in his stare must have quelled any further questions, as Takada lowered her gaze and sank back in her chair with her hands folded in her lap. And that was the end of that.

___________

Takada won’t be around by the evening of the 28th.

Her last duty was passing along a date and time to Mikami, her purpose fulfilled. He thinks he might kill her on air during the 9 o'clock news tomorrow. It goes without saying, her guards as well. Start fresh.

Light stalks the halls, traveling at a leisurely pace, mug in hand. Morning turns to afternoon as the sun lowers, dipping behind the cityscape. He figures he could use another coffee to carry him through the rest of the work day and sets course to the kitchen.

Why?

Her doubt still echoes in his ears. Needles at the back of his neck. It seeps into his everyday and the longer he tries to suppress it, the more keeping Matsuda alive feels like an error he’s attempting to overlook, when it’s not. He shouldn’t have to be subject to that scrutiny— not from Takada, anyway, whose importance has dwindled to nothingness.

And yet her Why? latches there, marinating in his brain.

He's sparing Matsuda, he supposes. That’s the convenient idea he’s landed on and it has nothing to do with his own desires and all to do with being a benevolent God who takes mercy on those who truly deserve it. And Matsuda is not a lost cause. Far from it. Nevermind that he’s one of the few people on this earth who knows of the Death Note’s existence and giving him this chance only adds needless risk; “careless” as Ryuk put it— He has this under control.  

He’s in control. And those who are in control can do as they please, including holding onto keepsakes. …A keepsake who provides something he deeply craves. His missing piece of the puzzle.

Matsuda used to come around his family home, before the investigation, before the notebook, before any of this. And sure, he was just some guy his dad brought home, some nameless subordinate he never really gave a second thought. He would drink with his father in their living space, talk work, then leave before too long, though he clearly longed to overstay his welcome as his mother urged him out the door. Just some man with no outstanding qualities he figured was probably as lonely back then as he is now. 

But he used to come around, nonetheless. 

Light’s fingers trace the stainless steel of his Omega Speedmaster, a birthday present from long ago. These days he finds himself clutching at the wristwatch, holding it close. He pulls the crown four times and the hidden compartment clicks open, eyes glued to the tiny scrap of notebook paper concealed inside.

His father couldn’t be convinced of Kira’s necessity in this world before he passed, but Matsuda—  

“You’re staying here tonight?” 

Light stops in his tracks. The hushed question comes from around the corner in the kitchenette. Ide’s voice. 

There’s a pause, then a hesitant reply. “Well, I…” Matsuda. “Do I have to run it past you first or something? I am.” His tone holds a defensive edge.

He sneaks a closer look, remaining unnoticed outside the doorway. Matsuda and Ide’s backs face him as they prepare coffee and talk at the counter. 

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Ide says.

“Ide…” Light watches Matsuda’s profile. He turns to Ide, opening his mouth to say something more, but it seems he can't find the words.

After a beat of strained silence, Ide asks him, “Last night— did you get home alright?”

Matsuda shifts in place and Light spots the folded up umbrella hooked over his arm.

“This… Thank you.” He passes it over to Ide, their touch lingering on the handle for a moment before Matsuda withdraws. “The extra cover helped, it really did. It's probably the only reason I didn’t catch cold.” 

“Good, that’s– Don’t mention it.” Ide then says softly, “Just be careful tonight.” And Matsuda gives him a strange sort of look in response; conflicted, a little indignant. Mostly scared.

As enlightening as it is, this exchange has gone on long enough.

Light comes to stand framed in the doorway and the two take notice of him with a startle. Matsuda’s coffee sloshes in his cup as it nearly slips from his hand, but he manages to hold himself steady. “Light-kun,” he chokes.

Light raises his mug and regards him with kind eyes. “Just refilling my cup. I hope I’m not intruding.” 

“Huh? What– no. Not at all.”

He strolls into the space with ease, casually stirring the tension. “Ide-san, you’re needed in the investigation room. Reports.” He gives a lazy wave of his hand, gesturing him away, and Ide looks about ready to snap.

“Yeah? I didn’t think we were in any particular rush, seeing as the case is dead in the water,” Ide says. He then mutters under his breath, unmistakably directed at him, “…Whatever the reason.”

Ha. Guess he’s still kicking, as much as he can manage, anyway. Not that he expected Ide’s fire to go out so easily, even if it’s only a few measly embers stubbornly burning away at this point. He takes a step towards Ide who in turn takes a cautious step back. 

Light practically sings his reply, smiling ear to ear. “All the more reason to get back to it. You can finish early and go home before dark. I want us wide awake for tomorrow’s meeting.”

Ide meets him with a hard stare, but he doesn’t stoke the flames. He retreats.

And Light takes that cue to lean across the countertop, catching Ide’s eye before he ducks out. He brings himself close to Matsuda. Sweeps past his ear. Says something intimate, something Ide can’t hear. He doesn’t miss the scowl devouring Ide’s features as he leaves. 

Ide’s spoiling him today, really.

He keeps his voice low and tells Matsuda, “I hope I’ll see you tonight.”

___________

Nighttime comes quickly and eats away what little day there was. It's somewhat of a shame; he’d wanted to savor the anticipation a bit longer.

The sconces on the opposite wall fill his bedroom with low, warm light, cast over the sofa where he and Matsuda sit. A cold fog dusts the windows at their backs, making the streetlights outside blur red and gold, speckled below a big black sky. 

Light couldn't help but open his laptop as soon as they stepped in the door. One last review doesn’t hurt, after all. He indulges in every detail Yellow Box has to offer, picturing their respective groups housed within its metal frame. High ceilings lined with skylights. Four empty oil tanks. Two flights of stairs leading to one upper platform. 

One rusted red door for their guest to peek through.

It’s a suitable final stage. Better than suitable— something visceral lights his senses alive the longer he absorbs each image in the folder. He openly scrolls the page beside Matsuda because scoping out the location like this isn’t particularly suspicious behavior; it’s part of their investigation, and he's their dedicated leader, prepared for anything. 

His fingers clack over the keys and trackpad, sound drowned out by the TV yammering in the background. Matsuda flips from one channel to the next, but he's not watching. He chatters about everything and nothing, filling the silence with whatever pops into his head in a thinly veiled attempt to cope with his own nerves. 

“What are you looking at?” Matsuda asks.

“I’m reviewing the location Near specified. The warehouse.” 

Matsuda gives him some reply akin to a soft, “Oh, right,” and nothing more. Light spares him a cursory glance and catches him picking at his finger, eyes unfocused. 

“Nothing good?”

“Hm?” 

“On TV.” Light gestures to the remote in his lap.

“Uh, no, not really. Not at this hour, anyway.” Matsuda’s yet to relax back into the sofa, hands restless, nothing to keep them occupied but the remote and his own fidgeting. His current state bleeds desperation and fear. And it’s grating.

He wishes he would stop. —Hey, Light-kun.— He should be grateful, not scared. —Have you ever noticed…— There’s a tap on his shoulder. —It’s red.— Touch so gentle, it sends an itch down his spine. —…Light-kun?—

What? What could it possibly be?? He faces Matsuda abruptly, making no attempt to mask his exasperation.

Matsuda shrinks back. “Sorry, it’s nothing important. It’s– Sometimes the sky turns an odd color at this hour… I’ve noticed. You have a good view of the city from your window, you’ve probably seen it.”

No. Why would he? The sky appears black and empty as ever. It hangs over a city in progress, still rotten to its core. Sure, it’s come a long way, but he’s only getting started. Besides, the idea of finding the time to absentmindedly gaze out the window especially during this last year of planning, scripting, and keeping on his toes is ridiculous.

He doesn’t waste his time acknowledging such a pointless observation.

Matsuda stares down at his fingers, twists them together. Dejected. He’s been like this all day. 

Light watches from the corner of his eye as he hooks a nail into his thumb and digs into the skin. It hurts to look at. Matsuda seems unaware as he worsens the wound. He’s done this before, a nervous habit, but this is particularly bad. Red and picked at. Light shuts his laptop. Stop.

In one impatient sweep, he swipes the remote and turns the TV off, then pries Matsuda's fingers apart. Matsuda looks at him startled.

There’s nothing to be nervous about. He despises the way Matsuda’s anxiety shakes him. Acting like he’s not certain, like they aren’t actually on the same page and he’s on the verge of making a very stupid mistake and choosing the wrong side.

Light loosens his grip and brings the hand close. Softly presses his lips to the hurting fingertip and thumb. “When you do that, you’re hurting someone very precious to me.” Sweetness colors his tone. It teeters on cloying, but seems to have the intended effect; Matsuda relaxes and shows him a lovesick look he’s seen many times. “I don’t like seeing you like this. You’re out of it, and it’s not due to lack of sleep like you said before.” 

Matsuda offers no response. 

“What’s on your mind?” 

“No, I’m okay.”

Light kisses down the back of his hand. “No, something is bothering you.”

He lets out a shaky sigh. “Just… tomorrow. I don’t know.” 

“You’re nervous about the meeting?” He shouldn’t be. He’ll have a front row seat to something really spectacular if he knows how to appreciate it.

Matsuda raises his shoulders a hair, giving a noncommittal shrug. 

Light drifts closer to his side and drapes an arm around him, granting him his full attention. An act so simple— Matsuda had always silently asked for it, craved it, any form of physical contact no matter how small the gesture. He revels in the comfort of touch like he’s never known it, and all the same terrified it could slip away at a moment’s notice. Grasping on while also wondering if he has the right. It’s just the kind of person he is. Even now, simply sitting side by side has him flushed and taking in the closeness with vague surprise, despite months of Light leading him to bed and repeatedly making him fall apart under his touch. Matsuda still treats it like it’s all been a dream he’s yet to wake up from. 

And Light doesn’t suppose he can blame him. In what world would he choose Matsuda? 

This one, evidently.

“What is there to be afraid of?”

Matsuda carefully scans him over and doesn’t answer straight away, rather, it seems he’d prefer to pretend he didn’t hear the question at all. Reluctant as he is, he manages to open his mouth and not keep Light waiting. “I’m not sure. I guess all of this just seems so sudden.” He swallows. He’s pale. “Near said the case will come to a close tomorrow and Kira will be brought to justice, but how on earth does he plan to do that? I don’t trust him. I feel like he’s going to put us all in danger just to prove a point, and there’s a possibility… maybe even—”

“You know I’d do anything to keep us safe.” 

Color returns to Matsuda's face and his shoulders drop in relief. Like all the problems in the world have been solved. He replies quickly. “I know. I know you would, Light-kun. That’s exactly what I told—” His sentence gets caught in his throat and he freezes. 

“‘Told’?” 

“What?” Matsuda breathes out, the word barely audible. A bright and phony smile lights up his face. Overcompensating. He repeats himself, louder this time. “What? No one. I misspoke.” 

Ide.

Huh.

Right. That confirms it. Matsuda and Ide's conversation continued after they left HQ last night. But why hide that fact? 

“I won't let anything bad happen. Especially to you, Matsuda.” He’ll grant him a break. Whatever they spoke about, it won’t change anything. As if Ide’s word alone could ever be enough to sway him. “But you’re not alone, you know. Between you and me, I’ve also been on edge the last few days. Near’s given us such little information about this meeting, after all. I have no idea what to expect.” 

Matsuda looks at him with a childlike sort of astonishment. “Really?” 

No, not really.  

Everyone will die tomorrow. Mikami will write their names and in 40 seconds time they’ll clutch at their hearts as their bodies fall to the floor in quick succession, gasping down each fleeting breath until it’s their last. And then there will be the most beautiful silence, exactly as it should be. He’ll finally get to live in it and rejoice as this endless act comes to a close. He can’t help the way his fingers dig into Matsuda’s shoulder at the thought, clutching with anticipation, with a hunger like no other. So palpably close. His perfect victory. 

There’s a wince beside him and he’s snapped back to the present. Light releases his grip and trails it up and down his side, gentle. Matsuda needs him vulnerable right now. Someone to empathize with. “Is that so hard to believe?” He closes his eyes and ghosts his lips over his temple. 

“No, it’s just, you always seem to have it together. Because, well, it’s you.” 

A laugh leaves him. “You think that highly of me?” 

“…How can I not?” 

Hm. This side of Matsuda is undeniably cute. 

Matsuda covers Light’s hand with his own and moves to interlace their fingers, uncertain at first, experimental. When Light returns the gesture with a reassuring squeeze, Matsuda allows his head to fall on his shoulder and releases a soft sigh. 

Matsuda is chipped confidence and chronic loneliness painted in bright colors. Slim limbs and a gentle gaze that finds its way back to him over and over. Easily shaped and swayed, molded into place. Matsuda seeks something he’ll never fully give him, but he’ll gladly give him hope. Play the role he desires. Playing love, or something resembling it. Matsuda accepts each false and pretty praise like a cherished gift. Light used to pity it, that side of him that laps up any small affection and thanks him for it ten fold, with his body, his mouth, with obedience and gratitude. But somewhere along the way it filled some piece in him he hadn’t known was missing and then he wanted to cage it and keep it only for himself.

He cups Matsuda’s jaw, fingers brushing the back of his ear, making his breath hitch, then pulls him in by the waist and guides him over his lap. Dips his fingers under his collar and kisses down his neck. Matsuda’s hands find his shoulders and hold on, the motion automatic. Grip tightening and bunching the fabric of his shirt with a fervor he doesn’t even seem to realize, scrambling to cling on. Filled to the brim with long and want. 

Long and want— those things are dangerous. They’re your downfall. Don’t you know that? Matsuda gazes at him, a haze fallen over his eyes, easy to decipher. 

Light parts their bodies and stands from the sofa, taking Matsuda by the hand and leading him to the bed. He doesn’t need to say a word and Matsuda’s already reclined into the bedsheets, waiting in anticipation. It never takes much.

He crawls up his form, walks a hand down the length of his neck, across smooth skin. Matsuda lifts his chin to make room for the gesture. Shivering, needing. Trails down the front of his shirt and plucks open the buttons one by one while his other hand reaches around the small of his back and draws him in. He keeps a knee between Matsuda’s thighs, creating friction that makes him gasp and squirm. Leaves him trapped there panting with erratic breaths and involuntarily creating a rhythm with his hips.

This, too—
He unfastens Matsuda’s belt and unbuttons his slacks.
It’s performance, it’s—
Then slides them down his legs and discards them who cares where.
It’s something like that.

“Good. You’re so good, Matsuda.”

There’s that expression; like he could cry. It sounds of nothing, but cries out so loud. So clear.

Light finds himself having gotten used to these secluded meet-ups devoid of watching eyes. It’s turned into something that’s not part of the plan, not really. And maybe that’s unforgivable when he’s chosen this life of sacrifice and carved it out for himself, thrown away every part that isn’t crucial, neglecting even his own family. There was a reason for playing the boyfriend Misa wanted him to be. There was a reason for wrapping Takada around his finger. All of it— it was a means to an end. And so surely, surely there was a reason for first kissing Matsuda, for leading him back to his room each following night. For pulling his strings and immersing them both in this strange ritual of intimacy. There was. 

And there still is, right?

Why? Takada had asked.

…   

There is no reason. These late nights serve no real purpose and it’s maddening. They retrace these intimate patterns, Light waltzing Matsuda to an oddly peaceful tempo they’ve forged together. He leads and Matsuda follows. The love Matsuda so freely provides is a given he’s come to anticipate each night, and without realizing he’s become fascinated, maybe even comforted by this dance. And it’s times like this when Light finds himself reciprocating, he has to question who’s really taking the lead. …He doesn’t dislike it. 

It’s addictive in a way he doesn’t wish to examine too closely.

Holding him here, the weight of Matsuda’s life in his hands, he thought it might feel heavier, but no, it’s light as a feather. He tangles his fingers in a section of dark hair. Impossibly light. Matsuda gives himself to him like it’s nothing at all, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. There’s something about him that sometimes makes Light want to grab him by the shoulders and demand to know how he can allow his pride to plummet so low. Equal parts delighted and repulsed by his willingness to be led around by the nose.

It never did feel worth it to take Matsuda’s life when he puts so little value to it. Almost sprouts a twinge of guilt. …Almost. It exists like a hot shadow creeping up Light’s back, reminding him it’s there, however tucked away he tries to keep it; its presence left unacknowledged for years and years. Such an unproductive feeling would only slow him down and make Kira a non-reality. 

But he’s reminded of that guilt like a distant memory as he runs his hands along Matsuda’s frame, through his hair, looking into sweet and dark eyes. Guilt that doesn’t serve him. It’s there. Matsuda draws it out of him. At its worst, it’s accompanied by regret—  which he refuses to acknowledge. 

Matsuda’s trembling body presses hot against him, along with that hot, dark shadow. Searing into his skin. Kind of makes him want to kill that feeling, kill Matsuda right here and now. Wring his neck. He tightens the grip in his hair, tugging at his scalp. Matsuda doesn’t seem to mind, jerking into the motion with a soft pleasurable noise.

Light takes in his scent, slinking his open shirt down his shoulders. His clothes smell like his detergent, his bedsheets. Matsuda’s stayed here long enough. He presses his lips to his throat, exhales warm breath that makes Matsuda strain and subsequently melt, fall apart. Then, a few languid kisses down his chest while coming into a grind, rolling their hips. Tongue meeting skin. One, two. Three seconds of that is all it takes for him— “Light-kun, I… more…”

So easily. He comes undone under him so easily, and it’s only natural. Matsuda’s wanted him for years.

He wonders if anyone’s ever seen him like this. If he’s unraveled quite this way for another person. Matsuda lifting his hips and chasing his hand, delirious and pliant and so completely his. If Ide could see this, if he could hope to get anywhere near Matsuda like this… That thought sparks an instant fire in him, nearly draws a laugh from his lips. Rushes him with heat and satisfaction.

Light continues a path of kisses down his body and stops to suck at a patch of skin above his hip. “Feels good?” 

Matsuda writhes beneath him. He manages a small “Yes,” breathy nonsense spilling from his lips. He’s already so far gone.

He looks good like this.

Light's touch starts high and travels down, fingers caressing his chest, then past his stomach, down his thighs. He parts his knees and when it dawns on Matsuda where he’s headed his body arches and twitches, letting out a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a whine. “Light, —ah— that… You don’t have to if you don’t want to– You don’t have to do that,” he gets out, eyes unfocused with lust. He’s nothing if not courteous, often to a fault. With the state he’s in though, his courtesy is hardly genuine; face turned away, muffled panting barely contained in the pillows. Clutching at the sheets as Light finally lands between his legs and starts to work his mouth on him.

“Yeah? It seems like you want me to, though,” Light says, words smothered as he takes him in completely, coming into a steady rhythm. Matsuda, in turn, raises his hips to better meet his lips, and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’s lost it, head tipped back and eyes fluttered shut.

Tell me. He pulls off and Matsuda whimpers. Lifts his head from the bedding he’d just been incoherently moaning into and flashes him a sort of miffed, wide eyed look. 

“Tell me,” Light says, kissing his inner thigh. “Tell me you want it.”

“God, please, yes– yes. I want you.”

That answer reverberates through him. “So beautiful,” he speaks into his skin. “So cute when you're honest. Tell me more.” He whispers sweet praises before ducking back between his legs. “Special, you’re so…”

“Yes, I– More than anything—” Words trickle from his mouth, slurred together with desire. And then he breathes out, “Love you, I love you…” Light knows. “Really love you.” And Matsuda knows how lucky he is. To be here, to do this with him. He knows, and so he doesn’t expect ‘I love you’s back, which is maybe the thing Light appreciates about him most. Enough to swallow around Matsuda as he tips over the edge. 

He wipes his mouth, then moves back up his body. “That didn’t take long.”

Matsuda takes the opportunity to cling to him as he comes down, clawing into his back. Hot scratch lines that burn his skin, even through his shirt. Marks Matsuda has no right to claim on his body. Light removes his hands and pins them to the bedding, back down where they belong. 

“For you– I can… Would you like me to…” Matsuda shifts under him, arms lifting under his grip. He glances downwards, offering to return the favor, looking at him through his lashes with an obvious neediness. Always eager to please.

“No, I wanted to focus on you tonight.” Light guides him up by the waist and into his arms so they both sit together at the headboard. “Anxious as you were today, I think you deserved it. So let me treat you nicely.” As much as the thought of Matsuda kneeling between his legs right now entices him, there’s something far more valuable he desires from him. 

And now he’s certainly owed. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Mm?” Matsuda murmurs in a pleasure drunk bliss, sinking back into the pillows.

“You always try your best. I see you…” The words float off Light’s tongue, feather soft. “You smile and stay cheerful despite it all— it’s to put us all at ease, isn’t it? That’s the role you’ve given yourself, and it’s an important one, thankless as it often is. You’re not fooling around for the sake of it or taking the case lightly. You’re making a conscious choice.” Matsuda blinks, settling back down to earth. He scans Light over in quiet bafflement, questioning how he was figured out so easily. And Light takes it as the silent confirmation it is. “But I know this investigation’s been hard on you. It’s draining to come into work each day and pretend a case like this is so absolute, so black and white, when it isn’t. You said so yourself not long ago.”

Matsuda tilts his head. “Huh? What did I…?”

“When you said Kira may not be completely evil,” he replies casually.

The calm in Matsuda’s demeanor drains away and he tenses up beside him. “Light-kun, I didn’t know what I was saying– that time. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. It was a mistake.”

Was it, now?

He snakes an arm around Matsuda, pulling him in and sliding a hand up his waist. “But I was glad you said it.”

“Wh–” Matsuda sputters. “Glad?”

“I wanted to hear what you had to say.” 

“That makes one person, I guess. The way Aizawa looked at me when I said that— I’d never seen him really look disgusted before, but he– I remember– he looked at me like he didn’t know me anymore, and I… I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.” 

“…And I don’t think it was a mistake,” Light continues, glossing over his worries. “If anyone was in the wrong, it was them. You were only offering another perspective, and yet they were so quick to shoot you down.” 

Matsuda only shrugs. “I shouldn’t have brought it up in front of them.”

“So bring it up in front of me.” He places a kiss in Matsuda’s bangs, “You don’t have to hide what you’re really thinking,” then whispers in his hair, “when you’re with me.”

Matsuda curls into his touch. “It’s… Well, it’s sort of hard to put into words.” He pulls the shirt pooled at his waist up over his shoulders and busies himself doing up one of the buttons, not putting much real effort into it, but seemingly needing the distraction. Light gives him an expectant look and given that permission, Matsuda’s words pour freely from him like a faucet. “Sometimes I catch myself thinking this is just the way the world is supposed to be going. Maybe it’s been so long living like this, in this ‘age of Kira’, I…” He exhales a laugh through his nose. “I mean, everyone else– they’ve already accepted Kira, haven’t they? It’s strange, isn’t it? We’re really the last to oppose him. Even the NPA…” His face falls.  

Yes, even the NPA. It’s true. They’ve essentially stopped funding the search for Kira. Any real opposition has slowly but steadily dwindled away over the years. Their sorry excuse for a task force is hardly worth taking into account and the last notable opponent will be eliminated tomorrow. The world has reaped the benefits of Kira and adjusted and accepted because they know what the right choice is, the way it was always meant to be. And Matsuda knows so, too. 

Matsuda looks off, mulling over his next words. “Everything’s changed. It’s undeniable and we know better than anyone. Criminal activity is basically nonexistent. It’s change, real change we never could have hoped to achieve on our own. And so it feels really, I don’t know, hypocritical maybe? To deny it. To pretend things aren’t—” He stops himself. But Light wants to hear the answer. More than anything right now, he wants to hear it.

“What?”

Light waits patiently while he hesitates. Then, in a quiet voice, “…To pretend things haven’t changed for the better.” 

This is why you’re so good, Matsuda. Defenses lowered, words finally honest, he's so very good. Those innermost thoughts spoken aloud sink into Light and unlock contentment he hasn’t felt in years. Elation, even. He crawls his fingers securely up Matsuda’s side, his presence clicking everything into place. One more step, a little further and he’ll choose the right side. The only side. Of course he will, eager to be of use to the one person who gives him the time of day. Another step, once he’s fully committed, he might take the Eyes, no, surely he’d jump at the chance. If he asked Matsuda to, he would. He already volunteered once before when given the opportunity—

He’s getting ahead of himself. 

Not unexpectedly, but much to his disappointment, Matsuda grows rigid under his touch when he realizes what he just confessed. He scrambles to correct himself, trained to expect a scolding for simply speaking his mind. “But I know. I know it’s wrong to think that way. I know it.”

Light glides across his chest, applying gentle pressure, and speaks calmly. “It’s not such a bad way to view things.” 

“How can you say that? Kira’s form of justice, it’s—!” Matsuda instinctively rises but the weight of Light’s hand keeps him down, flush with the pillows at the headboard. He doesn’t want him running from this, not now. Not with how close he is to filling that missing piece.

The intensity of Matsuda’s own reaction seems to have surprised him, so he gradually allows himself to lie back. But the bewilderment in his gaze remains, searching Light. “It’s bad. It’s evil.” 

“And perhaps it’s a necessary sacrifice for the greater good.” 

Matsuda’s eyes go wide, his words appearing to have struck a chord. 

A small laugh bursts from his lips. “What’s that face? Is that something you’ve thought before?”

That lowered gaze says yes. “Even so, it’s wrong.”

He’s contradicting himself all over the place and it’s honestly growing tiresome. Why can’t he just admit it?

Light hums. “Matsuda, I know working this case has hammered certain ideas into your head about what’s objectively right and wrong. And the others certainly haven’t made it easy on you. I have no doubt we’re all committed to seeing this case through to the end, but I also think we’re allowed our own personal beliefs.” He smiles. “Don’t you?”

“No, well, maybe.” Poor guy clearly doesn’t know how to respond. Light watches him squirm, some sort of pointless blockage he’s holding onto preventing an honest response. “But Aizawa and Mogi, and…” Light makes a vague note of his omission of Ide’s name. “If they knew about all this, they’d- I don’t like to think about it.”

“They might not understand, but I do. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret.” 

Matsuda looks like he wants to object, but he doesn’t.

“There’s no need to be afraid of tomorrow because Kira spares those who do the right thing.” He graces Matsuda’s cheek and leans in close. Speaks against his lips. “And you’re a good person.”

Light kisses him long and deep.

“Light, please.” Matsuda holds onto him with ragged desperation. Drinks him in. Face pressing into his neck and arms wrapped around his back like if he lets go, he’ll drown. He can’t get any physically closer, but he tries. “Please, please,” he repeats, though he doesn’t seem to know what he’s pleading for. Please yes or please no. The words trickle out of him like water. 

If Matsuda needs someone to tell him it’s okay, that his thinking is okay— if he needs that permission, he'll gladly grant it to him.

“It’s okay, I’m here.”  

But if he's pleading he won’t choose to kill everyone tomorrow, it’s far too late for that.

Dancing around this… 

He breathes in Matsuda’s skin and splays his hands across his chest. Places a few kisses he reacts to with sharp inhales and jolts, a held back moan, but he’s not here with him. He’s disappointed to find Matsuda’s mind clearly elsewhere, eyes screwed shut, face turned away. Running from his thoughts. A sharp nip to his collarbone does the trick. Matsuda lets out a yelp of surprise and Light presses his lips over the indent he just created in his skin, runs his tongue across it. He wants him present, alive. 

“Hurts?”

“No, I…” Matsuda breathes heavy, words leaking around gasps. “I don’t care.” Grips into his shirt. 

How much longer can he play willfully ignorant? Matsuda’s comfortable with make-believe, living in this dream where there are no hard choices, and Light’s fulfilled such a thing so far. They rehearse and rehearse, and he’s taught Matsuda the lines, but what will he do when the real show starts? The old world will fall away when his team drops dead around him tomorrow, and it’ll be Matsuda’s decision whether he follows him into the new one or joins the others on the concrete. When he can no longer deny what he knows…

He's so close. All Matsuda needs to do is let go of what’s holding him back. Get rid of it.

Just a little further, a little more. 

“You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” Light tells him. “It’s never wrong to speak the truth.”

Matsuda flicks his gaze up. “The Chief,” he blurts mindlessly. Light lifts up from his body and stares down at him, prompting him to flush and stammer over his words. “Ah, no, it's just– you sounded just like him. Your dad told me something similar once,” he explains.

His dad, huh? Matsuda speaks of him often, perhaps out of respect, to keep his memory alive. Or maybe because he always wanted to fill the nonexistent role of second son. Sometimes he thinks Matsuda took the loss of his father harder than he did. It infuriates him. “I see. When was that?”

“Uh, it was… before you came on the case, in the early days. Around the time Kira first appeared on our radar. There was an immediate result— the lowered crime rates, I mean. I relayed the statistics in a meeting with all the other departments, and, well, I didn’t read the room and it was stupid– really a stupid thing to do. The Chief tried to assure me I hadn’t messed up, but he was probably just trying to make me feel better. He never meant to say I should go so far as thanking Kira for what he’s done, much less siding with him. He never would have accepted—”

Shut up. “You think so? I wonder about that. I can’t help but think he’d eventually come around to see things from your perspective. It seems inevitable in a way. Whether we like it or not, realistically speaking, Kira’s word as law will be considered commonplace in a matter of years, if it isn’t already. It’s hardly a controversial viewpoint these days.” How dare you speak as though you know anything about my father.

Matsuda shoots him a perplexed look that makes his blood boil. Like he’s the idiot, like he’s the one in denial.

“There’s no way he would have been so easily swayed. I can’t imagine him being anything but disappointed with the way I’ve been thinking lately. It’s just the kind of person he was,” Matsuda says.

Light lets out a disparaging laugh, unable to bring himself to smother it. No, rather, he wants it to hurt. He wants to dress Matsuda down with cold eyes and keep him firmly cemented in his place, soaked in his disdain. “‘The kind of person he was’? Huh. So you really do consider yourself part of my family. That must be why you think you have the right to say that. It also explains why you’re comfortable being so overly familial.” He lines his voice with sharp edges, with rubbing alcohol pressed tenderly to a wound. And prolongs it. “Well, I guess it can’t be helped. Those who have no place to go will latch onto the nearest thing, and so you wormed your way in.” He leans in close. “And they let you in because they’re decent people. They saw how you followed my dad around like a dog and pitied you.” 

He combs a hand through Matsuda’s hair, tugging at the roots near his nape to tilt his face up. His contempt is hardly veiled, but it’s what Matsuda deserves, overstepping where he doesn’t belong. “To imply you know my own father better than I do… I let you in because I like you, Matsuda. But if you think you know anything about ‘who he was,’ you’re mistaken.”

Matsuda stares at him shell-shocked, then crumples in on himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say…” Voice small and hurt. “I’m sorry.”

Ah, did that completely crush him? Too far? Well… 

Matsuda’s life dangles from his hands and he could so easily let him go. As his sole lifeline, he has the right to cut it. It’d be nothing. Doesn’t he realize…? If he were aware, maybe he’d start acting in his best interest.

“It’s fine.” 

His father’s disapproval haunts him. And the last thing he needs is Matsuda of all people confirming that which he already knows. He can barely stomach showing him a pleasant face. 

“Hey.” The word leaves his lips low. Breath warm on Matsuda’s ear, he whispers, “You didn’t stay over last night.” Trails up his side, nails gracing his torso. “You left so suddenly, it surprised me. And I wondered why you didn’t come back.”

“I… went home. To my apartment.” 

Light doesn’t need to say a word when his expression does all the talking; In what world is that an adequate answer?  

It gets the message across and Matsuda scrambles to elaborate. “I stepped out to grab a few things from Lawson. I meant to come back, but it started raining and I didn’t have an umbrella, so I decided to—” 

“You walked in that storm last night without an umbrella? That must have been miserable. You should have just come back here.” 

“The station was closer than headquarters at that point. It seemed better to go home.”

“They sell umbrellas at Lawson, don’t they? Right at the front of the store,” Light counters without missing a beat.

Matsuda stills and holds his breath for half a second before saying, “Oh. Guess it slipped my mind.”

Why are you lying to me, Matsuda?

“Well, I missed you. These days, you could cut the tension with a knife around here. Our team being disjointed like this is far from ideal, but having you in my corner has been a godsend. And it’s not like I can entirely blame the others with the way Near’s placed suspicion on me, but it hasn’t been easy. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Ide-san’s been acting somewhat… hostile towards me lately.”

“Ah, Ide— He’s not a bad guy, though. Not really.” 

He’s still holding onto that. Onto Ide. When he doesn’t need to. 

Matsuda twists the corner of the bedsheets in his hands. “Um, actually, last night… I talked with Ide before I left. Downstairs. I– Well, I tried to talk some sense into him.”

He’s coming clean now? Why omit that in the first place? “Funny, I also spoke with him last night.” 

Matsuda pulls the fabric in his hands taut. 

Light continues, “Though he didn’t stick around long. He seemed eager to go. …Did you two happen to cross paths later last night?” 

“No. No, it was raining so hard, even if he did pass me, I wouldn’t have seen him, anyway.”

Oh, come on. You can do better than that.

“Right. And you didn’t have an umbrella. Poor thing.”

Dread flickers in Light’s stomach. His piece of the puzzle, his. It’s not fitting perfectly into place— it was supposed to, no, more than that, he needs it to. It needs to fill the intangible void that’s been plaguing him, and it shouldn’t be important, but it is. 

Light removes himself from Matsuda’s side and sits up. “It’s impossible to get through to the others, though I appreciate you trying. It’s clear Ide-san’s made up his mind about me, just like the rest of them.”

“It’s Near putting everyone on edge, that’s all. He’s the problem. Detaining Mogi and- and making us turn on each other and making us afraid. Messing with our heads.” Matsuda props himself up on one elbow and tries to bring himself close, following Light with shaky desperation. “Ide, he’s just– he’s scared, too. And it’s hard for him to understand because of that.”

“The thing about Ide-san— he presumes to know what’s best for you like you don’t know yourself. You don’t have to defend the rest of the team; they don’t exactly afford you any grace. In fact, all they ever seem to do is belittle you and tell you that your way of thinking is wrong. It’s a waste of your time to spend it with those who will never fully accept you. You don’t need people like that. People who’d never look at you the same if they knew what you really thought. That goes for Ide-san, as well. He’d hate you.” 

“Maybe he would. But, Ide… my time with him hasn’t been wasted. Not at all. I…” Matsuda’s sentence catches in his throat and he chokes back something. Face taut in an effort to suppress his emotions. “He’s scared, but he has a good head on his shoulders. He always has, and I clearly don’t,” —he breathes out a sad laugh— “so he’s really helped me through the years, really, more times than I can count. And so, please, it’s hard to hear you speak about him like that.”

“You know what the others think of you, how they treat you. Do you really think he’s any different? Ide-san doesn’t actually care about you. You know that, right?”

The look Matsuda gives him cuts straight through him.  

What the hell’s with that?

“That’s not true,” Matsuda says, quiet but clear, like he’s realizing it himself. “That’s not true,” he repeats, looking him dead in the eye. His tone is firmer this time, spoken with a sense of conviction that slices through the atmosphere. 

Matsuda’s words needle at the back of Light's neck the same way Ryuk and Takada’s questioning did when he felt his hold on the situation slipping. But he’ll be damned if he allows Matsuda of all people to knock him off balance. 

A sweet pitying look accompanied by reassuring touch should suffice, perhaps an embrace. But when Light reaches forward to take him in his arms, he’s abruptly shoved away. The motion not exactly harsh, but swift and purposeful. 

…Matsuda’s never done that before. 

Matsuda wears a wide stare as though snapped out of a fugue state, sobering to what he’d just done. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“It is true. He doesn’t care about you and even when it seems he does, it’s only because he feels sorry for you.” There’s a frustrated spike in Light's voice he quickly catches and smooths over. Composes himself with a sigh, a hand through his hair. “I know that might be hard to swallow, but I’m not saying it to hurt you. I’m only trying to save you the heartbreak and tell you the truth. I never want to lie to you.”

He expects an apology, You’re right, I’m sorry, or possibly seeking some reassurance, Oh… Of course. I know you’d never lie to me, would you? Probably. 

Neither response comes.

“You’re not telling me the truth, and I don’t know why,” Matsuda says, lowering his gaze to his lap. They sit side by side on the bed, but Matsuda’s miles away. When he does brave a glance at Light, he looks cautiously as though he’s speaking to a stranger, like he’s seeing him for the first time and dreads what he's found. “Why are you saying these things to me right now? The others can be harsh, sure, but they need me with them. They want me around. Ide tried to make sure I understood that, and I… I’d like to believe him.”

Where does Ide get off poisoning Matsuda's mind with all this hollow flattery? Of course he had to choose now of all times to open up to Matsuda. Indelicate and stubborn a man as he is, his emotional breakthrough is probably the result of being told he’s not long for this world. Still, Light thought he’d picked at him enough last night to discourage him from speaking with Matsuda further. Thought he’d crushed his ego enough to keep him quiet. 

Separating Matsuda from the group had been natural when they’d never fully included him in the first place, but his connection to Ide is an unexpected thorn in Light's side. He knows what Matsuda believes about Kira deep down— what he’s afraid to admit out loud. But right now, he’s proving to be a tremendous disappointment. A mistake. 

It seems his words, even his touch, no longer hold the same effect, and so long as Matsuda’s attached to Ide, that will continue to be the case. Matsuda won’t be willing to make the necessary sacrifice for the New World. He… won’t be able to let Ide go, will he? 

…

Yeah, that’s perfectly clear.

“That’s your choice to make, Matsuda-san. I just hope you don’t regret it.” 

“Ide, last night, he…” Matsuda twists his fingers together. “He was acting like the world was ending. And he might be right to be afraid. He’s afraid because tomorrow– Tomorrow—” His voice rises, sudden onset of white-hot fear shaking his words. “Something horrible is going to happen.”

“Mm, and what do you think that is?” It’s collapsing, tumbling down and falling away to pieces. He cages Matsuda between his arms and leans into his form, taking him in with what little time is left. The puzzle piece doesn’t fit. It’s imperfect. It squashes his expectations. May as well scatter it, pull it apart completely. 

“I don’t know, I…” 

“Yes, you do.”

“They’ll die, they’ll all die.” The words break from Matsuda's throat, settled there the whole night, unspoken, but waiting in agony. “They’ll all be killed. Because, Light-kun… you’re—”

Kira? Ah, ah, ah. He glides a thumb over Matsuda’s lips. The idiot almost spoiled the whole show.

The final piece is best left unsaid like this. “It’s better not to say something you can’t take back.” He tries to force a smile, but he knows he wears it sharp and cold. “Especially when you’re uncertain of which side you stand on. …It’s not fully mine, is it?”

Matsuda flinches under his touch. His mouth moves, but words don’t come out.

It can’t be helped, he’s a bad actor. 

“What if we don’t go– What if we just don’t go tomorrow, Light-kun?” He’s panicking now. “We don’t have to go, we don’t have to do as Near says. Things are fine as they are. I mean, we’ve been fine on our own for years…!” Matsuda clings to him, fingers tightening to fists in his shirt, pulling him down, keeping him there and babbling on nonsensically. It’s an unsightly display, causing repulsion to brew in Light’s stomach that threatens to seep through his expression. Matsuda’s begging and pleading doesn’t mean anything, it’s simply filling space, the words tangled together into a messy knot of fear and last legs. “Please, I don’t– There’s no point in going. So let’s not. Let’s not. Please, you can’t—”

It’s truly pathetic.

“Matsuda-san.” He pries Matsuda's hands from his shirt, grip harsh enough to shut him up. “You don’t know what you’re saying. We’re going to the meeting tomorrow as planned. It’s stupid to suggest otherwise, and you know that.”

It’s a tiresome song and dance and he’s done with it. Matsuda’s loyalty, from the beginning, was never strong enough. He shouldn’t have expected him to believe in Kira out of anything but fear. Why he expected much out of Matsuda in the first place, he’s not certain, but it leaves him with an emptiness he hasn’t felt since L’s death. Victory that's assured but imperfect in an infuriating way he can’t grasp. An itch he can’t scratch. 

Light rises to his feet. “You’re tired. Get some rest. I’m going downstairs to decompress.”

“Please don’t leave me.” Something tugs on his sleeve, then wraps tightly around his wrist. An initial spark of anger rises up inside him so intensely he thinks he might give up the nice act and swat Matsuda’s hand off, shove him away and give him the same treatment he suffered earlier, but the longer he stares down at him the funnier it becomes. “Light-kun, please.”

…How low can you get…? He nearly bursts out laughing in disbelief. Instead, he closes his eyes and slides a reassuring hand up into Matsuda’s hair, brushing across his nape. Cupping his face.

“Okay,” he says.

“I don’t want to be alone. I don’t know what I’d do without you, I really—” Matsuda’s still scrambling with nothing to grab onto, sliding down a smooth well. 

Enough. “Shh, I won’t leave.” He moves to lie beside him over the covers, fingers caressing soothing patterns into his hair. “Now try and get some sleep.” 

He does, with great effort, and Light waits patiently until his breathing becomes slow and quiet. Until his eyelids grow heavy and the hold on his wrist less desperate.

On the cusp of sleep, Matsuda murmurs, “Everything will be okay, won’t it?" He speaks so quietly Light almost misses it. "You would never…” He doesn’t finish that sentence. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he’s already asleep.

“Yes, it’ll be okay.”

___________

Smooth silver, cool to the touch. Light’s fingertip glides across the glass face of his watch. He observes the hands gradually change position as Matsuda falls deeper into sleep beside him. If he keeps his breaths shallow enough, he can hear the faint tic.

The light from the window shifts over the walls as the moon rises high in the night sky. It’s late. And quiet. He trails a hand across the pillow Matsuda’s head rests on, taking in his sleeping form. He breathes gently, sheets rising and falling over his chest. In his bed, his sheets. He engraves the image in his mind as he rises from the mattress. Soft shape laid out in the darkness. 

In the early hours of the morning like this, the rooms in this complex bleed loneliness. It creeps in through the blinds, through the walls, the screens and wires in the investigation room below— and most times he doesn’t pay it any mind. Most times he pretends it isn’t there at all. When it’s this quiet, however, it floods his senses in a way he despises, its presence inescapable.

A little further, it was only a little further. One more step and he would have… But…

What a shame. 

He grabs his cellphone from his desk and leaves the bedroom without a sound. Ryuk stirs from a dark corner of the living room, limbs unfurling as he trails behind, curious. Light opens the door to the stairwell cloaked in black and descends, his steps on the metal staircase echoing off the walls. Stops halfway down. His eyes scan the glowing screen with indifference. Maybe a numbness. 

He glides over the keys and dials out a number. It rings three, four times. At this hour, there’s a good chance she’s already asleep—

“Hello? …Yagami-kun?”

Takada isn’t completely useless, after all. 

“Is it okay for you to be calling me like this?”

The Task Force monitors his phone calls and text messages, particularly with Takada, but they won’t exist by tomorrow, so it doesn’t matter. 

“It’s fine.” He’s short with her, his reply a sharp nip. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’m calling because there’s been a small change in plans.”

“‘Change’? In regard to—"

This is how it always should have been. No need for any unnecessary moves before the 28th. In fact, it was careless of him. Unlike him. 

“Matsuda Touta’s name. It’s to be included with the others tomorrow. Call T immediately after this and let him know.”

Matsuda made his choice. 

And if that’s the case, then I don’t need you, either.

He made his choice and by doing so, chose his fate. The same fate as the other fools who disobeyed God.

Such things he once considered precious —his own wants and desires, fragments of his former life, people— have become less and less difficult to throw away. In the end, those old regrets are easily left behind when the only direction, the only option , is forward. A bright and glittering future all alone. A one-man show. 

All alone.

Ryuk’s laughter echoes throughout the dark space, dry and cruel.

“Understood.”

Chapter Text

_____________________

Their train speeds along into the night as it always does, as yet another fruitless day on the case comes to an end. Matsuda and Ide find themselves jostled about in a sea of bodies, immersed in fluorescent light and the rustle of suit jackets pressed back to back. 

“Ugh,” Ide grunts, then mutters quietly, “We should have left HQ later and skipped rush hour.”

Matsuda doesn’t mind so much. Because there’s comfort in crowding together like this. On the busy train he belongs somewhere, a member of the herd, sharing in their collective exhaustion and relief at the end of a long day. It’s normal. It’s nice. He often finds himself pretending he works a standard office job at some company just like the rest of them and sinks into that respite. The warmth of people, another person —Ide’s presence right in front of him, crammed together at the back of a train car— is closeness he's not often granted. So he doesn’t mind staying trapped here for the next handful of stops.

They pull into the station with a slow halt and more office workers bustle in, wrapped in their scarves with the collars of their coats pulled up to their ears. Faces flushed pink from the cold.

The sight has Matsuda cozying further into the muffler around his own face. “At least it’s warm.”

“So warm there’s hardly room to breathe.”

That’s what he likes about it.

Their train continues gliding forward until it hits a turn and swerves sharp on its tracks, causing the collective mass of people on board to lurch at the motion. Despite Matsuda’s grip on the looped handle above his head, the ground leaves his feet. His mouth opens in an inaudible gasp, but before he has the chance to topple back into the strangers behind him, Ide hooks an arm around his middle and prevents his fall. Ide keeps him held firmly with a hand splayed across his back. Only when the turn subsides and Matsuda regains his balance does he let go. 

Matsuda comes down from the initial surprise and steadies himself. He processes the unexpected gesture with wide eyes, an involuntary grin forming on his lips. “You were quick.”

Ide’s ears burn red. He averts his gaze. “I think I’m conditioned to keep an eye on you at this point.”

Yeah, because he’s a walking disaster.

They stand motionless for a moment until Ide manages, bumping shoulders with a few disgruntled passengers, to switch their places. He positions himself so his back faces the crowd and Matsuda’s presses securely against the window. There’s less risk of him losing his footing in this position, and it's times like this when Matsuda wonders if it’s wrong to read into these simple acts of kindness as something more. 

It seems Ide’s always taking care of him. And maybe he’s taken it for granted. Or maybe it’s just harder to recognize because Ide’s not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. It’s the little things; how he prepares a fresh cup of coffee for Matsuda when he stumbles barely on time into work each morning, or when he purposefully stalls his incident reports so they can finish up at a similar time and walk to the station together. He’s somewhat of an ally in a room full of people who discount him. Not that Ide doesn’t give him a hard time on occasion, but it’s different with him. When Ide reprimands him, it’s somehow in good fun, encased in familiarity and care. Without fail, Ide’s right there, on his side. Always has been there—

Ide clears his throat. “I’m so beat I almost forgot. We have an off-day tomorrow, don’t we?” 

Matsuda snaps to attention, realizing he’d been staring off while lost in thought. Possibly staring directly at Ide. His face heats. “I know. For the first time in… How long, now?” 

“God knows.”

Matsuda leans in, keeping their conversation intimate, quieter than the hum of the train out of consideration for the surrounding passengers. “I’m helping the Chief install a new home computer tomorrow. He told me he tried to do it himself, but he couldn’t, um, figure out where the monitor cable connected. Or how to turn it on.” He stifles a laugh.

“So the Deputy Director’s still tech illiterate, huh?” 

Matsuda cracks a smile and delivers a playful swat to Ide’s arm, defensive on Chief Yagami’s behalf. “It can’t be helped. The Chief is from a different generation.” 

“You know, he hasn’t been ‘the Chief’ for a couple years now.” 

“Yeah, but ‘Deputy Director’ isn’t who I know him as. He’ll always be the Chief to me.” 

Ide sighs but lets it be. “You’ve been spending a lot of time over there. The Yagami household.” 

He has. Ever since Light took over the investigation as the new L and claimed duties on top of duties alongside attending university and studying to enter the NPA, Matsuda finds himself spending what little free time he has at the Yagami residence. Light’s mother misses her son and Sayu misses her brother, and perhaps he’s only filling the void of his absence, but he’ll take the opportunity to be needed and run with it. Gladly.

“They’ve treated me well, and… it’s nice to make myself useful.”

Ide raises a brow. “By setting up a computer?” 

Matsuda shrugs. “I’m not needed at headquarters, so if there’s some small way I can help out, I want to do it. Even if it’s not related to the investigation.” 

There’s a pause where Matsuda expected an immediate quip back. Ide is fixing him with an odd look. 

It makes him squirm.

Ide finally replies, “You don’t really think that, do you? You’re on the Task Force for a reason, Matsuda.”

What are you talking about? “I guess. But I just- sometimes I wonder what that ‘reason’ is. I think everyone does. It’s not like I’m bringing anything special to the table.” He says it without a second thought because such a thing is obvious, but Ide’s looking at him with something bordering on concern, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. So he lets out a laugh and takes it in stride. “It’s fine, though. I mean, super geniuses like Ryuzaki and Light-kun are pretty hard to live up to. And, hey, the investigation needs someone to keep things lighthearted, and I think I’ve got that covered, even if Aizawa might call it a distraction rather than a virtue– no, more like a nuisance.”

Matsuda smiles wide, but Ide only observes him with that same unreadable expression, his mouth set in a tight line, and Matsuda wants to shake him by the shoulders and tell him not to be so serious.

What follows is a silence that stretches too long for comfort. Long enough that his stop is coming up next. When it’s quiet like this, it feels like death. He can’t stand it at HQ and he can’t stand it here. He wants to crack a joke or search his brain for some piece of gossip to talk about or anything that might relieve this gravity, but he knows Ide won’t take the bait. And so he stands there under Ide’s knowing stare, swaying to the motion of the train, caught between the desire to escape and craving the unfamiliar intimacy that comes with being seen. The city disappears as they round into a tunnel. 

“You know I think about you all the time, right?” 

The offhand comment catches Matsuda by surprise, so much so, he questions whether he heard it at all, Ide’s words lost in the rumbling echo of the dark passage.

He probably mistook it.

___________

January 28, 2010

Matsuda doesn’t know why he’s remembering some winter night from years ago. Maybe because Ide is squeezing his hand under his jacket right now and he’s clutching even tighter back.

Aizawa sits in the driver’s seat, Light beside him, while he and Ide sit in the back. They piled into the car around noon and currently make their way to their destination, to Yellow Box Warehouse— because one way or another this godforsaken meeting would happen. 

It can’t be far now. Can’t be much longer until they arrive. But he isn’t sure, unable to keep track of time when each passing minute peels back a new layer of dread.

That morning was filled with equal distress; he couldn’t face it, couldn’t grapple with it when he woke up in an empty bed, when hazy sunlight filled the room and reminded him no matter how hard he tried to will it out of existence, today would come as Ide told him it would. As Light told him it would. 

Anxiety ran high in him like a pressure cooker the instant he got in the back seat, and he’d been so unceasingly restless during the initial part of their drive, he half expected Aizawa to stop the car and tell him off for distracting him. 

He hadn’t realized how badly he was picking at his fingers until Ide’s hand surprised him. With a kind and careful touch, Ide guided him under his coat piled in the center seat and held his hand. Matsuda couldn’t wrap his head around it. That inexplicable tenderness. He still can’t.

They’ve stayed like this for the better part of the ride, Ide’s hand over his, and Matsuda can’t decide if he’s thankful for the affection or paralyzed with fear by its implications. Despite that fear, he melts into the gesture, soaking up the small comfort. His vision goes blurry with the threat of tears. Openly crying is a worse prospect than bottling it up and bearing it, so he inhales a long and shuddering breath and manages to pull himself together. 

Light sits directly in front of him and he kind of wants to breathe him in. Wrap his arms around his shoulders and beg him to take them back. We don’t need to do this, we really don’t have to go…

Ide’s thumb stroking across the top of his hand drags him back to reality.

He lets his head fall to the side and peers out the window. In the clouded sky, he spots Ryuk’s silhouette flying overhead, following their car. The sight of his spindly figure entrances him, unable to take his eyes off what he realizes is a scene not of this world (and if he weren’t accustomed to greeting a shinigami every morning at work, he might be more appropriately horrified), until Ryuk’s wings carry him directly above the car, out of view. 

At least they’ll finally see Mogi in person. Working the case these past few months has been a nightmare. Near’s insertion in their lives tore apart the small world they’d built just the five of them. He took Misa and Mogi from them. And then Ryuk appeared and the Chief was killed and… Things haven’t felt normal in so very long, but maybe seeing Mogi’s face will set things right.

They’re soon over water, crossing a bridge over the bay. Various islands filled with storage facilities and construction litter the gray expanse of sea, reflecting a sky that looks like rain. He spots a lighthouse standing peaceful, painted white, somewhere far off where the sea meets the sky. He’d maybe have liked to take a drive and watch this scenery go by some other time, under different circumstances. Yeah, he’d have liked to. He’d really—

Heat rises to his eyes. Don’t lose it, don’t lose it, don’t, don’t, don’t. How many times has he risked tears today? It’s so stupid. He can’t cry. Not here, not now.

Matsuda’s fingers grace the revolver in the holster at his hip, across the smooth wood of the grip. They keep getting drawn back there, reminding him of its weight, that it’s there, in case… In case what? If things go wrong. If things go really wrong— But they won’t, will they? 

Light cares for them. He wouldn’t just throw them away. He’ll keep them safe. He has to. 

Please.

Their car pulls through a chain link gate and they roll onto Daikoku Pier. 

Already. It’s too soon.  

Ide meets his eyes, something unreadable behind them, and Matsuda realizes how tightly he’s gripping Ide’s hand, but he doesn’t want to let go. They’re here too soon. He’s not ready—

They ease to a halt behind the abandoned warehouse. Another car is parked up ahead, concealed in the shadow casted by the structure.

“Looks like Near and his team are already here,” Aizawa says.

“Aizawa-san, can you go in first and make sure whoever’s inside are indeed members of the SPK, and that Mogi-san is in there with them?” Light asks. 

Matsuda can’t see his face, only the back of the passenger’s seat. Light hasn’t really looked at him all day. When he woke up alone in Light’s bed that morning it set the tone for the entire drive. Scared him beyond belief. 

“Take Matsuda-san with you.” 

Ide’s touch leaves him, slipping out from underneath the jacket and Matsuda has to restrain himself from reaching out and dragging him back. 

“Got it. Let’s go, Matsuda.” Aizawa gets out of the car because that’s the next step, that’s what must be done, and so Matsuda forces himself out the door against the warning of his better instincts; an internal alarm that blares in his head and nearly makes him dry-heave. 

Just do it. Do as you're told and it’ll be fine.

He can taste the air, the sting of ice and salt. Smell of asphalt. The area is eerily quiet, save for the gentle rock of the sea lapping the edge of the pier. The cold rolls across the empty span of road and brushes his skin. He almost questions Ryuk’s whereabouts aloud when the flap of the shinigami’s wings cuts through the wind as he lands behind them, perched on a pillar.

Leaving Ide and Light alone in the car together feels like a mistake, as volatile as the atmosphere between them has been, but Aizawa’s already walking ahead. Matsuda watches his back, knowing he should move his feet and follow, but his focus is drawn back to the car. He finds Light through the front windshield, sun glare half-covering his face. Their eyes meet and Light smiles at him. A warm smile. A rare smile he’s come to know over countless intimate nights spent together.

It’s a smile Light doesn’t show just anyone. And momentarily, all is well. 

Matsuda picks up the pace and joins Aizawa up the road. They turn a corner that brings them to the front of the building. Aizawa pries open the rusted door, and sure enough, Mogi is inside accompanied by four others. One woman Matsuda recognizes from TV as Lidner, the undercover agent acting as Takada Kiyomi’s bodyguard. Two men stand next to her, one built tall and broad like Mogi, the other similar in stature to himself. And then someone he can only assume is N— crouched on the floor, pale and small, armed with the same impenetrable aura L had.

The SPK stand there at the far end of the warehouse as though this is some kind of showdown. And it’s ridiculous. It’s theatrics. Of course Near would do this, of course he’d waste their time with this unnecessary meeting and build it up into something it’s not. Aizawa walks over to their group when he fails to, speaks to them, confirms something, then returns. Matsuda watches from the doorway where the wind gouges him hollow. Seeing Mogi in person was supposed to soothe his fear, but it doesn’t, his nerves merely continue to rattle around with nowhere to go. 

“Well, it’s really them. And no communication devices on their end, either, as promised.”

Aizawa continues to relay information as they walk along the pavement, but the words pass through Matsuda whose eyes stay unfocused straight ahead, landing on Aizawa’s back. He’s wearing a slightly nicer suit than usual. All of them are, because sure, why shouldn’t they dress up for N? Underneath Aizawa’s freshly pressed jacket is the Death Note they’ve kept locked away in their custody at HQ. They retrieved it from the safe this morning and now the supernatural weapon is harnessed to Aizawa’s chest. Near requested that, too. Apparently they’re at his every beck and call now. 

Aizawa strides forward, a sense of duty concentrated into each of his steps. Matsuda can’t help but stick close behind him, clinging to what little scraps of comfort and safety he can in the shadow of his frame. The unmistakable smell of stale nicotine is seared into Aizawa’s clothes. Matsuda vaguely recalls that same stench lingering on him the past month, and he hadn’t thought much of it back then; maybe a mild curiosity as he didn’t peg Aizawa as a smoker. Now he doesn’t question the need to rely on such a vice.

Looking at Aizawa closer, those confident steps are really just bogged down and burdened, carrying some intangible weight. And if he looks at Aizawa long enough, the dread embedded in his features becomes obvious. 

Oh, he’s terrified.  

Aizawa isn’t supposed to be terrified. Not headstrong, resolute Aizawa. 

A fresh wave of anxiety crashes over him. “Hey, Aizawa.” 

Matsuda slows his pace, delaying their return to the car. “This meeting… It can’t be that bad, can it? It’s not the be-all, end-all.” It won’t last more than an hour, he bets. They’ll listen to whatever Near has to say, probably take it with a grain of salt, then head back to HQ, make coffee, resume their work and go about their routine, same as always.

“This is just another step to further the investigation. This– I mean, it’s not the end,” Matsuda insists with a strained laugh. He wants to laugh as he normally would, a breezy laugh he’s practiced for years, but the pit in his stomach betrays him and ruins his performance. All out of tricks. “I don’t know why everyone’s acting like it is.” He hates the way that last part comes out. Like he’s a pathetic, sulking child.

Aizawa stops in his tracks. He turns to face Matsuda and surveys him closely. His eyes hold a knowing ache, like he can’t bring himself to break it to him that, yes, their worst fears are realized and their fates are sealed. His expression paints a bleak picture that only serves to sink Matsuda’s stomach further, drag him down and anchor him to this dismal reality he doesn’t want to look at.

There’s a beat before Aizawa opens his mouth. “This morning Eriko told me she’d like us to eat together tonight. Maybe watch something on TV with the kids. Order in. You know, I think the last time we all sat at the table as a family was a little over a year ago.” He looks off somewhere far away. The edges of his eyes burn red from lack of sleep. Possibly tears. “And I’d like to. I’d really like to. But…” 

A nameless emotion rushes through Matsuda, heart thudding heavy in his chest.

Aizawa exhales and rubs at his face. He then straightens his shoulders and stands tall, returning to the unwavering man Matsuda recognizes day in, day out. “This case means everything, and god knows I’ve given up everything for it. But I’m glad to have been a part of this task force, to have worked alongside you, Mogi, and Ide. I don’t regret it. And I want us to bring Kira to justice. Or end this knowing we tried.” He shows Matsuda a small smile. Not exactly kind, but something done in solidarity. They’ve shared the misery of this case for six years and been through hell. Matsuda wants to return the smile, but he’s not sure he has any right.

“He’s not here to do it with us, but I want us to do it together… for Deputy Director Yagami,” Aizawa says.

With that, Aizawa turns on his heel and continues back to the car, rounding the corner of the warehouse. Their meeting room. Their execution site. Matsuda follows.

“Yeah, I… Me too,” he weakly offers up. Disgusting. 

___________

The waiting goes on forever and it’s accompanied by the heaviest silence— no, worse, the screech of rusted fan blades on the wall above. The echo only amplifies it and god, he’s scared.

He’s so fucking scared. 

Light wouldn’t. He can’t. He can’t.

The storehouse stretches dark and endless to their right, occupied by empty tanks, steel framework, pipes, rails. Tiered stairs that lead to an L-shaped catwalk above their heads. Patches of skylight and specks of sun dot the floor, shone from holes corroded in the tin roof, but the light doesn’t reach where the Task Force stands drenched in shadow. Ryuk looms behind them. Matsuda doesn’t need to look at the creature to know his presence; it never fails to cover his skin in needle-like static.

His teeth chatter if he doesn’t clench his jaw, from nerves or the winter air leaking in, he’s uncertain. Ide and Aizawa stand beside him. Their mere being there provides a hint of warmth, and even if the sensation only exists in his head, he finds himself desperate for it. Light leads their group at the front. He’s near enough, if Matsuda reached out, he could brush his shoulder. But there’s nothing warm about Light. No. Light’s poised there with his back turned to them, cold as stone. 

Mogi stands with the SPK opposite them, a good distance away, but they somehow feel close and Matsuda feels… watched. He can’t look up. He simmers in sickly terror, eyes fixed to his shoes stood on cracked and oil-stained concrete. Rusted red door in the corner of his eye.

They’re waiting for someone. Near said it wouldn’t be long until that someone arrives, until he opens the one and only entrance and looks inside; a third party who will write all of their names in his Death Note. And when he comes, they’re supposed to pretend he isn’t there and let him.

He’d laugh, but Near isn’t joking.

It’s an eternity waiting to allow someone to kill you. 

Living is scary enough. Every hopeless day spent on the case is evidence of that. And some part of Matsuda thinks maybe this isn’t so bad— if they can’t stop what happens today, if this is supposed to be the end… 

He’s half aware he’s shaking almost violently and he must be the only one. Sticking out like a sore thumb and the others must be wondering what the hell is wrong with him and subsequently asking themselves what someone so inept is doing here.

He doesn’t know why he’s here. He shouldn’t be here. How the hell did he end up on the Kira Task Force, anyway? That’s right, it was some mix of impulsivity and blind faith. Surely the only reason he’s come this far is his stunning lack of self preservation. He could have resigned in the beginning like everyone else with a brain, but the Chief’s sense of justice inspired him to stay, to be part of something bigger. To do what’s right…? God, maybe he really is an idiot. Maybe he wanted to be worthy of the position the Chief believed him capable of. Certainly didn’t want to waste it, be any cause for further disappointment. And he wanted to be someone. Be needed. 

But he could never live up to that and instead became the Task Force’s burden.

In any case, he shouldn’t be here. Oh, but if he’d never joined this special unit, he wouldn’t have been able to work with Light and see him every day, and he’s never really loved anyone like he has Light. But Light is also probably about to have them all murdered. 

And perhaps he’s known so all along.

“Matsuda.” 

Ide’s looking at him like he’s liable to collapse on the spot. Ah, so he does look as miserable as he feels.

“Are you—” Ide starts to edge closer.

“What– what is it? I’m fine. Fine. Sorry.” 

Ide continues to fix him with a worried stare, and it's not just him; Matsuda’s keenly aware of every eye on him, watching him fall apart. His head grows hot and overwrought. His brain orders his muscles to move, to run, escape, but his feet won’t budge. And they’ll yell at him if he flees, won't they? That’s not what a member of the Kira Task Force is supposed to do. 

Just fall in line, do as he’s told. That’s all he needs to do. Keep his head down and wait for whatever comes. Coward.

“‘Matsuda-san’, right?” The voice comes from the other side, a neutrality to its tone like still water that momentarily breaks Matsuda from his spiral. “If you’re feeling ill at ease, there’s no need. Do as I tell you, and it’ll be our victory.” 

Matsuda lifts his head to find Near gazing at him over the tops of his knees. He lazily twists a lock of hair in his fingers, awaiting his reply. Like this is all so simple.

“How can you say that?” How can he speak to them this nonchalantly when he’s wagering their lives? He knew Near was impassive, but he didn’t think he’d actually— Matsuda suppresses a gag. “You really expect us to wait around and die…?” 

“We have no reason to trust you,” Ide pipes up beside him, much to his surprise. His voice is thick in his throat and riddled with nerves, and observing him closer, Matsuda doesn't think he's ever witnessed Ide so distressed.

“I understand,” Near says, meeting their alarm with the same unfazed expression. “But I’m telling you, nothing will happen. No one will die, I assure you. Your cooperation is appreciated.”

”You’re kidding. You can’t just- just- decide that for us!” Matsuda grasps at the air in front of him, seeking something that makes any sense about this situation and finding nothing. “You’re going to let this person write our names and you think we’ll just ‘cooperate’?!”

“Matsuda.” Aizawa moves to place a hand on his shoulder. A firm weight. “If this X-Kira comes here and…” he trails off. “Near is asking us to put our lives on the line. And I’m prepared to do that. I trust his plan to catch Kira and I’ll do as he says. You don’t have to agree, but that’s what I’ve decided.”

“What?” Matsuda chokes. “There’s no reason to- Aizawa, you—”

“I’ll cooperate, as well,” Mogi says from across the room.

Matsuda can only stand there, eyes flicking between the two with a hot streak of protest clawing up his throat. No one will listen and it’s not like he normally has anything important to say, but he thinks —no he knows— everything about this is terribly wrong. It’s so unfair, he thinks. Ha. There he goes sounding like a kid again. He bites back a laugh born from frustration. Picks at his thumb with his index finger. 

For as certain as Near is of his victory, Light is clever. Light is clever. Don’t they understand…?

He catches sight of red —that door— and it's his own mortality staring him in the face. It reminds him of the last few months spent painfully aware of Ryuk’s red eyes watching them struggle like it’s a stage show, as though they’re little more than cheap entertainment he could simply kill off should he get bored of their plight. 

When uncertainty racks Matsuda and he finds himself lost, he usually seeks out Light. But Light, despite standing within arm’s reach, isn’t there. 

His gaze travels along the lining of Light’s jacket, his clean white collar and the hair brushing his nape. A number of nights flood Matsuda’s mind; how he often clung around that neck, spread his hands over warm skin, over his shoulders and back. It felt safe. And when he held Light close enough, he disappeared into that safety and life became so clear and sweet and good.

That same refuge is no longer being offered. It’s been rescinded. Because he did something wrong? Because… Light’s decided he’s not worth the trouble? 

Light loves him. Light was maybe supposed to love him.

Matsuda tries to find Light's face to glean an answer, a sign that things will be okay, but he can’t see it. He can’t see anything at all. His feet stumble forward, then back, rocking on his heels, some part of him still hoping. In his mind’s eye, Light turns around and tells them that they’re leaving, that he’d never put them in danger playing by Near’s absurd rules. He said he’d do everything he could to keep them safe. Light told him so in the comfort of his bed, wrapped up in fresh sheets and gentle touch. He said—

They’re all going to die. 

They’re all going to suffer heart attacks, aren’t they? All at once, he’s agonizingly aware of his heart hammering away in his chest, the blood pulsing through his veins, the way he moves, the way he breathes. He can breathe, but that simple freedom will soon be ripped away. All of it— taken from them, and they’re going to lie back and let it happen.

No.

“He’s here.”

The rusted turn of the fan above is nothing compared to the visceral scrape of metal, the charge it shoots deep into Matsuda’s bones, the collective drop everyone inside Yellow Box experiences. The door opens, a gap that spills a thin bar of light across the floor. Filling that gap is a mouth, nose, the shadows of a face and hair. Dressed in black like a reaper. He’s here. He sees them, wide eye peering through, and he reads them, their very souls stolen with just a look. An instant.

And then the eye disappears and the dark figure hunches over.

Neither side moves as though caught in a trance, reminiscent of a dream where you scream at yourself to run, but your body betrays you. Sinking in the lost chance.

Matsuda snaps out of it when the sheets of fear wash over him in relentless waves. Cold and thick. He yells, “He’s writing– We have to—!” Reflexively, his hand slides to the revolver at his side. 

“Don’t move!” the SPK agent standing opposite him shouts, the man with the larger build. He steps forward with his gun raised, aimed at Matsuda. “Let him write.”

“What are you—” It doesn’t make sense. “What are you talking about?!” The SPK’s side is positioned right next to the door. They could easily stop this.

We have to stop this. Matsuda looks to the others, eyes wide and frantic. Why aren’t we stopping this?

The weight on his shoulder returns. Aizawa pulls him back, but Matsuda barely registers it, body burning with the need to act. Eyes cemented to that gap in the door.

“Wait. Please stay where you are,” Near says, still inconceivably calm. “As I said, we won’t die. I modified the notebook; the man outside is writing on pages I replaced. We’ll seize the notebook once he’s finished writing, when he looks inside to ascertain if we’re dead.”

Near’s words hold no weight. Matsuda could never trust him and he certainly won’t start now. And he knows Light. 

Light is clever.

They can’t afford to wait. By then, it’ll already be too late— and that sudden clarity cuts through the chaos. Strikes him like a match. Matsuda draws his foot back and raises his revolver. The gap in the door is narrow and his surroundings are cloaked in shadow, but the man on the other side is somehow clear as day. He’s never been so lucid, so certain of something. He aligns the sight with the target’s head, and it’s all but automatic. Natural. Smooth press of the trigger. One round. He absorbs the recoil like it’s an extension of his arm.

The sound of the shot crashes through the space. When the final echo resounds off the back wall of the warehouse, the figure behind the door sways in place then slumps to the ground.

Time halts and no one seems to know how to react. Aizawa releases Matsuda’s shoulder and lets out a weak sound of shock. The fan above scrapes, scrapes, scrapes.

X-Kira lies very still.

Light’s balance falters slightly. He takes a step back, and Matsuda gets his first good look at his face since entering Yellow Box. The stoicism in his demeanor is gone, replaced with rigid movement and startled eyes trained on the direction of the shot. And for the briefest moment, Light, the man with all the answers, who plans and prepares to the point of obsession, appears completely lost. When he finally pulls his attention from the corpse behind the door, he catches Matsuda’s gaze with a flash of hostility.

There’s a spattering of “Stop!” “Drop your gun!” “What did you just do?!” that erupts. Frenzied movement from the other side of the room. Matsuda registers the SPK dispersing, the agent across from him marching over. Aizawa and Ide crowding him.

“I–”

As confident as he’d been before, now his hands loosen and tremor around the grip of his gun. When he lowers it, vertigo swarms him and he’s gasping for breath in the dizziness. He’s underwater and all the other voices are a dull pounding above the surface.

40 seconds after the name is written. That’s when the heart attacks will strike. He’s read the rules detailed on the inner cover of the Death Note what must be hundreds of times. He’s watched the pro-Kira broadcasts, recorded the statistics of the judgements, hell, he’s even met a god of death. It’s funny, he was certain he understood the weight of the notebook’s power, and yet, now that he’s about to experience it first hand, he can’t grasp it at all. 

But maybe he’d been quick enough to stop X-Kira. Maybe he’d saved all of them. 

Or maybe Near’s plan would have been a success and he just murdered someone for no reason. That thought dips Matsuda’s vision black for a second, followed by a blistering heat that burns him from the inside out. His legs lose their strength, shoes scuffing the floor as he teeters back— fuck, he’s going to fall.

The seconds tick by, coated in a thick sweat. And he’s still standing. How is he standing?

Ah.

Ide’s caught him. He wraps a hand tightly around Matsuda’s arm, holding him upright. 

“You were quick,” he told Ide on a winter train ride. That memory again.

Yeah, Ide’s always taking care of him. Always, always, always- No, he’ll cry. He’ll lose it. God, he’s losing it.

“You know I think about you all the time, right?” 

How many seconds—

Near collapses first. 

He wasn’t quick enough.

He wasn’t quick enough. He wasn’t– Near convulses on the floor before going still, and he looks so young, so helpless. 

The gun falls from the hand of the SPK agent directly across from Matsuda and clatters to the floor. He follows close behind Near, dropping to his knees. He coughs, hacking dissolving to choking and clawing at his chest as though trying to get more air into his lungs. 

There’s a muffled hum, then it cracks, grows louder, clearer. Bright, indulgent laughter rings out. The euphoric sound blends with the panic in an impossible way. Light openly basks in the scene and it draws back a curtain to expose something grotesque, something incomprehensible. It fills Matsuda with boiling nausea. 

This isn’t real, can’t be, can’t be.

The SPK continue to drop like flies. The other male agent falls, spasming as he hits the ground hard. His eyes bulge as he rides out the final beats his heart has to offer. 

When Matsuda catches sight of Light’s face, it’s glee.

Light is Kira. And he’d known, he’d probably known. But he’d denied it for so long. …And made peace with it all the same. Disgusting. He’d accepted such a possibility and now it’s here, about to make his heart stop.

He’s dead. If his name is written, he’s already dead.

Ide grips harder on his arm, enough to bruise, and Matsuda finds himself scrambling for Ide’s hand in turn, to cover it with his own. Touch him one last time.  

A white square cast by one of the skylights shines on the floor a few paces away. Its hazy edges shift gently as the clouds above pass. He’d read about it, or maybe heard about it; victims of trauma finding and fixating on a specific, seemingly negligible detail during said traumatic event. He shouldn’t be entranced with a patch of light, and yet the sight of it prompts a break in the peril. A strange sense of calm separate from the world crumbling down around him. 

So this is what it feels like. He’d been so scared to die, but now that he’s essentially already dead, it’s somehow…

There’s no need to resist when the next moments are spelled out in ink. No more sheltering their fragile existences that were bound to break, anyway. Maybe it’s wrong, but a part of him welcomes it. Dying like this, clutching Ide’s hand, isn’t so bad. He’d have liked to do it again— many, many more times, but if this is it, he’s okay. He’s okay like this.

He’s okay.

It’s Lidner next. She staggers backwards until she slams into the wall and slides to the ground, body folded over. Someone yells out, a strangled cry that pierces Matsuda’s skull then trickles down his spine.

He awaits the next figure collapsing in his periphery. It’ll be his turn soon. Surely soon. 

It’s fine —if he’s dead, he’s dead— but he doesn’t want to watch it happen. He says goodbye to the white patch of light on the floor. Closes his eyes. Maybe if the world goes black around him, he won’t even register the moment he stops living. It’ll all blend together.

Eventually the sounds of limbs thrashing and fabric dragged across concrete fades away and Matsuda’s stuck waiting in a heavy wall of silence. No more cries or pleas. An unknown amount of time passes and he hasn’t felt his heart stop, but maybe this is what death is like. Maybe a person doesn’t realize they’ve died, like a ghost—

“It… stopped,” Mogi says.

That can’t be true, can it? Tight pressure still coils around his arm. Ide’s alive because Matsuda can feel his desperate grip, and if he can feel it, he must also be… 

He slowly raises his head and opens his eyes to see a collection of bodies sprawled across the other side of the room. Only Mogi stands alive among them.

Mogi takes stock of the situation with a short, jerky swivel of his head. “W-we didn’t die,” he says carefully, as though saying such a thing will jinx it.

Matsuda looks down to find the floor much closer than he expected. He’s bowed over the concrete, curled inward like a scared child with no recollection of how he got there. Ide kneels beside him, scanning the area like death is waiting just around the corner and playing a cruel trick by merely prolonging the inevitable. His face looks about as stricken as Matsuda feels.

After a moment, Mogi dares to move. He walks forward, numbly stepping over Near’s corpse in his path. His color drains when it hits him what he’d just so nonchalantly done. He then moves with haste, eager to get away from that side of the room, perhaps afraid if he stayed where he was, the SPK’s deaths would spread like a disease and he’d be next to keel over.

Matsuda runs the pads of his fingers over his knees, the fabric of his pants, then the cold, smooth floor. The wooden grip of his gun still clutched in his other hand. He can feel it, it’s real. He can breathe.

“God, what… what do we…” Matsuda says to someone, to no one at all.

Light takes a step forward and Matsuda’s breath stops. Light.  

When he believed himself dead, he didn’t need to think about Light’s presence. But he’s very much alive right now and his eyes are glued to Light’s glossy shoes as he strolls over to Near. He stands over the body laid across the floor.

“Ahh. Mikami managed the important part, but…” Light says mostly to himself. He tuts. “What a pity.” He’s expressionless as he tilts the corpse’s chin up with his shoe, then rolls the head over. 

There’s muted patter, some shift in movement outside the warehouse walls. On the pier. Matsuda jolts in place and looks back to find Mogi, Ide, and Aizawa equally alarmed.

Light glances over his shoulder to address them. “Who’s that?” he asks flatly. “Reinforcements? That makes sense, I suppose. It’s not like Kira to leave a job half done.” He then angles his gaze to Matsuda. “What do you think, Matsuda-san? They were alerted by your stupid, reckless act, don’t you think?” 

Matsuda stares up at him from the floor, head blank.

“Whoever they are, they're getting close. In fact, they’re already here,” Light says.

The four of them remain frozen in place as the words sink in. Footsteps pound the pavement outside. Several. Just how many—

Aizawa’s the first to fully grasp the situation. He curses, eyes briefly flicking over the one and only exit before deciding against it. He turns his attention to the platform above them in a snap decision. “Upstairs, now!” he shouts. “Quickly! Be ready to shoot!”

Mogi and Ide rush to follow, but he— There’s something he has to—

The Death Note is still outside with X-Kira’s body. If they aren’t shot dead, Light will get hold of it and finish writing names where that man left off.

He has to. Matsuda hauls himself up, but instead of beelining for the stairs behind him to join the others, he returns his revolver to its holster and springs forward. His legs carry him across the floor faster than his brain can catch up with, eyes trained on the door.

“Matsuda!” he hears Aizawa shout at his back. Then another voice, probably Ide, “No! They’re too close!” But those sounds are a blip in the background because his fingers are prying the rusted door open wider with a screech. And he can do it, he can, he’s almost there.

The cold hits him like a truck. Dry air and bright light temporarily blinds him, but he falls into it. His knees and palms hit the surface of winter ground and he searches it frantically. Forcing his eyes to adjust, the first thing he sees is a crumpled mass on the cement, dark pool beneath it —still spreading, steadily— and his throat spasms around a gasp, maybe a scream. He nearly chokes but he needs to move. 

The black shape of X-Kira floods his vision, but he needs that other black shape. His nails scrape the pavement as he shakily paws at the ground around the body for an excruciating second. When he finally catches sight of the notebook’s corner sticking out from underneath the corpse, he grasps and pulls— hard. 

A number of other heavy black shapes rush in from his left.

With a harsh and final jerk, the notebook comes free. White paper fans open, stained a brilliant red. Matsuda scrambles to his feet and throws his body through the door, back inside, several people hot on his tail.

Behind him, he hears the door swing fully open with a violent bang. He doesn’t look back. He sprints to the foot of the stairs, notebook crushed in his fist.   

The last thing he sees on ground level is Ryuk. His silhouette sinks deep within the warehouse, bright bulbous eyes cutting through the shadows. The shinigami takes his seat in the audience, anticipating a show.

When Matsuda reaches the others on the first landing, Ide yanks him by the arm and pulls him up the final flight of stairs. The metal steps clang beneath their feet as they dart forward and up with no discernible destination or plan. 

“Keep low!” Aizawa— someone orders. Matsuda doesn’t know, can’t hear, his focus pulled apart and scattered. Synapses firing in a million different directions. They swerve past the railing that lines the upper level and come to a kneel, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with their backs pressed flat against the wall and their revolvers held tight in their grip. Then they hold their breath while they listen and wait. 

Stationed on the highest ground available, it’s safer here than it would be out in the open, but they’re undeniably cornered. Boxed in and forced to be on the defense on a narrow ledge. 

The floor is barely visible from their position, but Matsuda catches glimpses through the rails as several figures spill in. Men dressed in black suits and ties. Hulking, imposing. They’re familiar. The same men he’s seen on TV, everyone has, infamous as they are. And then there’s Light, standing unafraid among them like he belongs there.

Right. Because Light does belong there. Because… Since the beginning, we meant nothing to him.

Every fiber in Matsuda wants to delude himself otherwise, but Light’s not cowering on the platform with them. He’s down there, calmly giving orders to four men who have their guns drawn and loaded.

They’d all vaguely registered it within the shock and chaos, but Ide’s words cement their reality. He looks unseeing dead ahead.

“Takada. They’re Takada’s bodyguards,” leaves Ide’s mouth in a daze. “Light is Kira. He is. Even if Near’s plan had worked, we’d still die. Light planned for us to die here either way, he– he…” Ide trails off with a dry chuckle, because it really is one big, sick joke and he can’t help but laugh. Matsuda would have laughed too, but he can’t manage a full breath.

The fan above their heads continues to scrape and pierce with each oscillation. The sound bleeds into the steady hum of Light’s voice; it echoes softly, phases in and out. Matsuda pieces together the tail end of his words.

“—actively sought to end Kira’s mission, destroying the order he’s fought so hard to preserve. It’s his rule that the Japanese Task Force face judgment, and death is the only sentencing for crimes against Kira. He’s calling on your services to complete his will.” 

The guards’ towering figures form a shield around Light. 

“Because they deserve a death sentence more painful than a heart attack can deliver for attempting to rob the world of true peace.”

Chapter Text

_____________________

Midday sun filters through skylights. It catches on chains and hooks hung from high beams, reflected brilliantly. Beautifully. That sun shines like heaven above, and it taunts them. Their only other chance of escape towers impossibly above their heads, even with the added height of the platform. 

Mogi seems to have a similar thought, Matsuda following his gaze up. They share a look of dread as they come to the same conclusion— they’re trapped in a metal box.

Their team crouches two flights above the entrance of the warehouse, a thick layer of steel at their feet separating them and the men who entered at bottom level. Matsuda becomes aware of his own breathing, shallow and panicked, so he reminds himself, keep calm, stay focused, over and over. The mantra does little to change the very real danger they’re in, however. They’re vulnerable. They may sit at a high vantage point, but the gaps in the railing that span the catwalk provide little cover.

Takada’s bodyguards. They must be trained— of course they’re highly trained. Put in charge of protecting Takada Kiyomi, the most spotlighted public figure in the country, perhaps the world. Nothing less than the best for Kira’s spokesperson. They’re trained, likely suited with body armor, definitely vests, and hold semi-automatic pistols. 

Matsuda’s eyes dart from figure to figure below. He catches slivers of what’s happening, but the guards stand in the way of him getting a full view of Light. They confer with one another. Discussing how to go about their deaths—? Right, of course they are and he knew that, but it hurts. Twists in his side and brands him with a piercing shame. He swallows icy air.

Light.

…Who the hell was that earlier? Was that Light? It looked like him, but he– there was something warped, something not quite right. He can’t get Light’s wide smile out of his head, the face he made while relishing their pain, their loss.

Ide’s shoulder rubs against his, and he’s forced to forget the betrayal and return to their dire situation. Matsuda’s instincts know this scene, been on the site of a shooting and a few hostage situations during his time with the police. Mello’s Mafia base was its own beast. Thinks he must have shaved off a few years of his life suffering the effects of it. The risk of being shot— it’s not unfamiliar. 

But they aren’t prepared. They don’t have backup. They don’t have cell phones or radios. “And the previously agreed upon conditions of no communication devices like cell phones or wiretaps on the premises is okay with your team?” He shouldn’t wish ill of the dead, but goddamnit, Near. 

To think they even reconsidered bringing their guns today, as they’re technically off-duty. Like it matters, anyway; limited to standard-issue revolvers with no extra bullets than what’s already loaded in their chambers. They can’t afford to waste their shots.

Matsuda pulls his gaze from the floor to his left, to the three next to him. The sight knocks the wind out of his lungs. Ide hunkers low, crammed beside him and overwhelmed with tremors he can’t suppress, and Mogi’s strong frame never looked so small, back pressed tight into the nonexistent safety of the wall and a terrified grip on his gun. And then there’s Aizawa knelt farthest away. He’s positioned directly above the corpses of the SPK laid out on the ground below, and he seems to know so, eyes cemented dead ahead and chest heaving. So clearly racked with fear. That’s not all, though; a visceral spark remains, something screaming out in Aizawa that he refuses to die here, not now. Not like this. Can’t leave his family behind.

Fuck. They don’t have the right gear. He eyes Aizawa’s suit, the professional and sleek and thin fabric that offers nothing in the way of protection, because Near heralded this as a very important meeting. How nice of him, having them get all dressed up for their own funerals. Matsuda’s grimly picturing the suit jacket stained red, when he remembers the Death Note strapped to Aizawa’s chest. His grip simultaneously tightens around the notebook in his own fist. And it dawns on him.

“We have both.”

Aizawa takes in the statement with visible confusion, then follows Matsuda’s gesture to X-Kira’s notebook, the bloodied, crumpled pages unfurling in his grasp. 

Aizawa’s face contorts in a scowl. He hisses through his teeth, “You’re not suggesting we write a name…?” He says it like such an act would be unforgivable. Well, of course Aizawa would think that. But, no, that’s not what he was getting at.

“…Leverage.” Ide is quick to catch on, elaborating for him. “If- if there were a threat to destroy the notebooks, we’d have leverage. Light needs at least one in his possession. He’s not Kira without it.”

There’s a shift in movement below. A single bodyguard escorts Light behind the cover of a steel column a short distance back, while the other three come to linger at the foot of the stairs. Their dispersal strikes the Task Force into high alert. They collectively tense, shrink back into the wall.  

And it all collides in a frantic wreck. 

Ide whips to Aizawa. “Quick, from the harness.” 

Aizawa tugs at his shirt with shaky hands, all while trying to keep as low to the platform as physically possible. His fingers struggle with the strap and buckle and time moves at an excruciating pace. When it comes loose, he unclips the notebook from its seal and removes it from its safekeeping on his person. “We- we can’t gamble on this,” he says with wide, scared eyes.

“Just pass it here!”

Voices tangle and overlap. 
“Wait, wait– The rule on the back cover! If the notebook’s made unusable, everyone—”
“‘Every human who’s touched it will die’? Near said those were fake rules Ki- Light made to protect himself.” 
“Well Near is dead! We don’t know for sure—” 
Ide yanks the notebook from Aizawa’s hands. “You’re the one who put his trust in Near,” he snaps. 
“Light won’t just call off Takada’s guards, they’ll kill us before we- before we do whatever this is!”
“What else is there?!”

Keep calm, stay focused, alert. We have to— The warning loops in Matsuda’s head and yet he’s watching the scene disintegrate in front of his eyes. And he doesn’t move or try to make it right. He doesn’t know how. Everything’s breaking down and it’s too fast, too much.

A metallic ping sounds out one flight down. Shoes advancing up stairs.

Some way. Something that would quickly render the notebook beyond use. A method that makes the threat real, that won’t cause Light to simply order them dead, then pluck the notebooks from their bodies. 

“Fire… If we could…” Matsuda raises his revolver and makes a wary gesture into the darkness, where the oil tanks line the far end of the warehouse. 

Aizawa gapes at him. “Are you insane? You’ll blow us up!” 

“It’s abandoned,” Mogi speaks up between them. “There’s no oil. Even if there were, the chance of it actually starting a fire…”

Right, that’s just a myth he’s seen on TV, isn’t it? Logically he knew so, but… how else are they supposed to threaten the notebook’s destruction? It’s the only bargaining chip they have.

Two of the guards slip below the platform, directly beneath them, and the other- Where did the other—? Where?

“Lighter,” Ide says under his breath. A sudden clarity hits him and he turns to Aizawa, louder, “Do you have a lighter?” 

Aizawa wordlessly picks at his jacket and pulls a lighter from the breast pocket, and Ide rises off the walkway to reach over and grab it.

It happens in an instant. Loud series of pops. A sharp hiss rushes past Matsuda, leaving a buzz in the air. Heat blooms across his knee, but there’s a greater, scalding heat beside him where the shots land. Ide lets out a strangled cry and jolts back against the wall. 

Matsuda flicks his gaze to the right and that’s where he spots the man clad in black at the top of the stairs. 

“Stairs!” he shouts, alerting the others. “NPA! Drop your weapon!” he finds himself ordering despite knowing followers of Kira no longer adhere to the justice system of the old world. 

The guard scaled the stairs quickly, and now sinks out of sight just as fast. Matsuda aims his gun over the top landing. Searching. At the shadow of movement, he fires. The shot misses and it’s such a damn waste. The man keeps himself ducked low, not visible from the top stair.

Then it’s a cacophony of bullets— maybe the loudest thing he’s ever heard. Can’t hear the yell that escapes his mouth or make sense of his own head. The thunderous echo drowns out all coherent thought. It’s the two men underneath the walkway; they fire up at the rail, shots colliding with the ledge and ricocheting in an explosion of sparks and heat. Sharp clang of lead hitting metal.

Round after round after round. 

Aizawa shouts, “Back! Stay on the wall!” in an effort to keep them out of line of fire, but the four of them are already crushed flat against it. 

It doesn’t let up. The guards continue to fire in rapid succession, not nearly as precious with their ammo as they’re forced to be. They probably have no shortage of bullets. Any amount necessary to get the job done. 

Despite being shaken to the bone, Matsuda keeps his eyes trained on the top landing. That man is still there, waiting to take his shot. Any second. The air grows muggy with sweat and smoke. Matsuda’s vision sways. Vibrates. He tightens his hold on the grip of his gun, every drop of focus funneled into keeping his extended arm still and head clear.

Aizawa follows his attention to the stairs. Barks out some order to the unseen man, “Drop your gun! Do it now!” It’s futile, but he still tries.

Sunlight catches on the surface of a Glock, a trace of black. Now. Matsuda’s finger twitches on the trigger when the man finally rises above the platform, but before he can pull it, there’s a bullet in his target’s chest. The guard falters, but absorbs the shot. It’s not enough, he’s got a vest, he’s—

A bullet then lands between the man’s eyes. His figure promptly collapses and disappears, body tumbling back down the stairs.

Matsuda looks over his shoulder to find Mogi with his revolver propped up on one knee, barrel smoking.

Mogi’s shot isn’t followed by another. In fact, the gunfire stops completely. Their ears ring within the silence, waiting with bated breath for another threat that doesn’t immediately come. Matsuda scans the floor, only to realize the remaining guards are still hidden beneath the cover of the platform. Mogi attempts to seek them out, searching for an opening, but pulls back when it becomes clear it’d only be a waste of his bullets. Takada’s guards probably emptied their Glocks in the relentless gunfire and stopped to reload or regroup, but Matsuda doesn’t care because—

Ide. 

Ide slumps against the wall, his jacket trailing down the surface with a damp, heavy drag. He clasps at his arm soaked cherry red and curls in on himself. Chest rising and falling rapidly. But he’s breathing, moving.

“Fuck,” Aizawa rasps. He lugs his body closer to Ide’s side. “Fuck. Where- where…?”

“Upper arm. Fine. Grazed me,” Ide manages through uneven breaths. 

He’s lying. It’s not just a graze, not at all, the wound on Matsuda’s own knee is a graze, this is– there is so much blood. At least two entry wounds. The bullets pierced his shoulder area, close to his chest. Maybe they hit a major artery, maybe they– Matsuda applies pressure, his hands and sleeves drenched in wet and hot and red. 

No, no, he- Matsuda remembers he wore a tie today, a tie… He finds the knot at his neck, fingers tangling, slick with blood. With effort, he pulls the strip of fabric loose from his collar. 

Ide’s jaw clenches, everything strung taut in pain. Yet his voice comes out unnaturally level. “I’m fine. Focus.” His stoicism is a front, strained words coated in a brittle layer of calm. This becomes obvious when Matsuda peels back the jacket over his shoulder. Ide flinches, eyes flashing wide, and fails to bite back an agonized noise.

Matsuda manages the jacket off, but he can’t remove his shirt; it’s stuck to the wounds and it’d only waste time and —god— he doesn’t know what else to do. Hoping the shirt fabric is thin enough for the tourniquet to still be effective, he fastens the necktie over Ide’s clothes, high above the wound best he can, quick and tight as he can. It feels pointless because Ide wasn't shot in the limb and the tie won’t stop hemorrhaging in the chest. The potential bad ends become too many to count and spiral Matsuda into a paralyzed state. Suddenly he can’t do anything but tremble in place.  

“I don’t know. Don’t know what to do.” He can barely find his voice. “This is…”

“Matsuda, I’m fine,” Ide insists, even as his face spells out the exact opposite. 

“No, you’re—” 

“I know!” Ide snaps. He then releases a choked sigh. “I know.” He searches Matsuda’s eyes. “But there’s nothing- nothing we can do until…” His uninjured side holds his gun with a weak and shaky grip, probably unable to take a steady shot if need be. And his wounds only continue to bleed. The makeshift tourniquet was never going to be enough. Ide looks through him. An empty stare. “We’re stuck here.”

No. Blood paints the surface beneath Ide’s body. Spills fresh from his shoulder. A constant, fatal drip. No.  

X-Kira’s notebook still lays crumpled by Matsuda’s side. He picks it up then reaches over Ide to grab the second notebook Aizawa passed over. Draws in a breath.

Before Ide can protest, he leaves the wall and crawls forward, both notebooks in hand.

“Hey!” The sound lurches from Matsuda's throat, but he can’t hear himself through the residual ringing. The buzz settles in his ears and becomes an intensifying drone— drones out the unanimous alarm from his team behind him as he comes to kneel at the railing, an open target. They probably think he’s making a very stupid mistake, and he probably is. But if he’s come to terms with it, it’s alright, isn’t it? 

Up close to the rail, the entire floor is visible and he finds Light accompanied by a black suit in the shadows. A pillar stretching from the floor to the rafters shields him from the chaos they just endured. 

“Light!” Matsuda calls out loud as he can. He clutches the binding of the notebooks and holds them aloft for Light to see. The two guards below the platform emerge, guns reloaded. 

He’s negotiated before, he’s trained for this. Still, primal fear surges through him.

There’s no immediate response and the few seconds of silence span a million years. Just when Matsuda figures he’ll be disregarded and gunned down, he registers a command— “Stop! Hold your fire,” the man by Light’s side signals. The others comply, lowering their guns.

“Matsuda-san.” The familiar warmth of Light’s voice floods Matsuda’s senses. Hits him with a strange ache. Light strides to the center of the floor, dark figure now crystal clear beneath a skylight. “What are you doing?” he asks. Or at least that’s what Matsuda thinks he asks, sharp tone still piercing his head. 

“We have both notebooks.”

“I’m aware,” Light replies.

…

That’s all? 

He needs them, doesn’t he…?

Light takes instant notice of his dismay, neutral expression twisting to a smug smile. “Let me ask you; did you think you were being heroic when you killed X-Kira? You could have afforded everyone here a more humane end, but now they’ll die a bloody death by gunfire. How’s that? Are you happy with that?” he taunts.

He wants to go down and throttle Light. Scream in his face. Wants to demand to know how he can do this to them. God, how on earth can he do this to them?

Instead, Matsuda steadies himself and tries, “There’s nothing stopping us from writing your name,” but the threat sounds paper-thin, even to his own ears. 

Light laughs at that. “I don’t think that’s your brand of justice.”

Matsuda grits his teeth. Mutters, “It’s not justice at all.” The Chief would surely tell him so. Right. He inhales, then projects with as much authority as he can muster, “Light, you’re under arrest. Tell them to drop their guns and come peacefully. Do it now! We’ll destroy the notebooks if you—”

Light’s smile drops. He turns away. “Don’t be stupid.”

He nods to a nearby guard and that’s all it takes. 

Matsuda slams himself down to the platform the instant the men below take aim. Several shots strike their steel cover, and for a moment he thinks he’s made it to relative safety unscathed. But there’s a blow to his leg. The pain doesn’t register, only the force of it. The immense heat.

He clambers backwards, dragging his injury with him. Shot through the left thigh. He thinks— it feels high, pressure traveling all the way up to his hip joint but he can’t really tell; the heat swells everywhere. A thought hits him and the fear is instant, wondering if it pierced the major artery in his leg and he’s completely screwed.

The gunfire resumes in full force, a deafening boom concentrated within the warehouse walls. The remaining bodyguards advance forward. Their black shapes rush the stairs, taking a more direct approach this time and climbing determinedly upwards. Footsteps pounding metal.

Aizawa lets out a yell and clutches his side. A hail of bullets shower them as the men close in, and Matsuda doesn’t know who’s been shot or who’s even still alive. Can’t tell if he’s been shot again. Can’t think, can’t tell up from down.

Mogi shifts across the platform and fires two rounds. Both miss. “I don’t have a clear shot,” he says, panicked. “I don’t, I can’t—” 

“Surrender, this is Kira’s rule!” one of the men shouts.

They’re small and caged, lying in wait to be disposed of. Light’s inconvenient afterthought. Nothing more.

The guards swarm the middle landing. “Give up, already!”

The wound in Matsuda’s thigh starts to burn deeply, traveling up his side. Could have been worse, could have been shot through the dead center of his leg. Still, it’s a white scorching heat, and the fabric of his slacks grows damper by the second, sticking to his skin with an accompanying dark patch that steadily expands. He’s bleeding more than he can ignore.  

He’s still conscious, still alive, but they're all hanging by a thread and nothing is clear and his mind won’t stop racing, we’re done for, we’re done for, we’re done for. 

Fragments of bright sky shine down from the roof, and that beautiful view just out of reach continues to sting cruel.

The others surely understand as well; they’re not making it out of here. Not unless something changes fast. Christ’s sake, they’d been caught in an explosion only a few months prior. He’d been wrapped in bandages from his shoulders to his wrists and Aizawa had practically been in a full body cast, and now they’re going to die here? Like this? Driven into a corner, slowly bleeding out at a meeting arranged by someone else, someone they never should have had to answer to. It’s brutally unfair, and Matsuda is used to unfair, and maybe he’d succumb to this pathetic end if it were only him, but everyone…

…

Screw this. Enough.  

The forgotten lighter glints in the sun. Matsuda plucks it up without hesitation and Ide jolts to attention, twists to face him, reach him, stop him. Starts to open his mouth. 

Matsuda places a firm hand where Ide’s grabbed him and meets his concern with gentle eyes. Please don’t move. He can’t bear to watch him bleed more. “I can do it,” he says.

Ide observes him for a beat, and he’s almost certain he’ll tell him not to be a fool, that this is a horrible idea and he’ll only get himself killed, but—

“Be careful.” 

Matsuda tightens his grip on the small metal piece and brings it near like a lifeline. There’s nothing careful about this, they both know so, and he can read what Ide really means to say behind his eyes; Don’t die.

He nods with no grounds to keep that promise. 

Sorry, Ide. Shoot at him all they want, fine, if he perishes, so be it. But for the rest of them, he has to do this. He steadies his foot beneath his weight and rises from the platform once more, this time coming to a full stand. His body screams at him as he endures the pang shooting through his left side. The sudden stream of blood down his shin douses him in a cold sweat, but he grits his teeth and fights the dizziness and in less than a second, he’s booking it to the top landing of the stairs. 

Aizawa chokes out, full of desperation— “Matsuda! No, stay down!” 

He barrels through the pain. Adrenaline lights his nerves alive and his blood rises hot in his ears, a burning cocktail of terror and blind impulse. His body collides with the rail and he’s grateful it’s there, liable to keel over without its support. He appears above the guards gathered on the middle landing. Somehow managed to catch them by surprise while they reload, and they look up at him like he’s crazy, mouths agape, probably convinced he has a death wish. Weirdly, he could laugh. Maybe he’s lost it.

He searches the floor below for Light. Light has to watch. 

When Matsuda finds him, he takes his pick of notebook, tucking one inside his jacket and holding the other up. He locks eyes with Light as he cracks open the binding and rips out a fistful of pages. 

Light flinches forward. 

Matsuda keeps them crushed in his grasp and flicks the lighter on, sending the paper instantly ablaze. 

There’s a quiet sound of realization, “Wait–” 

He then bends the notebook's cover in half and allows the flames devouring the ripped pages to eat away at the rest. 

“Matsuda—!” 

Brilliant yellow light laps at blood-soaked pages. Singed edges travel up and up and up.

When the notebook’s half gone, the yelling starts. “What the hell are you doing?! Stop!” It grows increasingly desperate. “Stop!” Fills Matsuda’s ears and scares him yet kindles a growing exhilaration all the same. Ignites his satisfaction seeing the Death Note burn and Light subsequently unravel.

“Don’t shoot! Pull back! Pull back now!” More demands resound from below. Most of it can’t be made out, just a frenzy of unintelligible alarm. 

The last lick of flame burns his fingertips, having worked its way through the entirety of the notebook, and so he lets the remains fall. The wispy, unusable ash withers to the ground as though the most dangerous weapon in human history never existed at all.

Matsuda peers down to find the bodyguards have retreated from the stairs as per Light’s orders. They rejoin Light, who stares up at him stunned, horror washing him white. It’s as though he’s expecting the worst, waiting for something —Matsuda doesn’t know what— that doesn’t come. Only as the seconds tick on, does his pallid form start to regain some color. 

He doesn’t give him the chance to recover. He pulls the second notebook from his side without breaking eye contact. Flicks the lighter on again.

“Matsuda,” Light’s voice booms. 

Matsuda stands tall and gazes down at him, unmoved. “What?” 

The air stretches thin in the unsaid. In that pause, Light surveys him closely, staring daggers. It’s rare to see him knocked off-kilter like this— and as if to purposefully negate that thought, Light promptly gathers himself.

“Okay. Let’s talk.” Light’s words come sure and smooth as always accompanied by an unmistakable edge. A warning. 

A spark of triumph joins the adrenaline coursing through Matsuda’s veins. Light does need the notebook.  

He takes a quick look over his shoulder to check the others. They’re alive, thank god, but in desperate need of medical attention, all sustained gunshot wounds of varying severity. Matsuda’s leg spasms involuntarily under his weight. Him, too. “If we- if we come down those stairs…”

“Come down. They won’t fire at you,” Light says. “It’s a good idea, anyway— speaking face to face.”

Matsuda doubts that. In fact, it’s exponentially more dangerous. But they don’t have much of a choice; that rusted red door is their only ticket out.

The remaining three guards surround Light like a fortress, Glocks still drawn. “Have them drop their weapons.” Matsuda gestures at the men, lighter in hand.

“I’ve ordered them not to shoot.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Then your team, as well. Drop your guns.”

It’s supposed to be your team, too, Matsuda thinks bitterly. It’s a useless thought because Light burned that bridge to a smoldering heap. That also means he doesn’t get to command them anymore. “No. No, we won’t do that.” He makes his voice hard and raises the flame closer to the black binding. 

“No way in hell.” The voice emerges behind Matsuda, low and labored. Aizawa holds his side as he lifts himself to one knee. “Light,” he spits. Blood dyes his shirt and seeps through his fingers, but his injuries only seem to fuel the fury he lets loose. “We’re not playing by a fair set of rules, here!! You ambushed us and shot us full of bullets! We’re not throwing away our only defense!” 

A scowl briefly crosses Light’s face. “Best I can do is have them put their guns away. No dropping them.” 

“…” You’re not supposed to meet your opponent halfway when negotiating. You’re supposed to try and stand firm, but it’s Light and he…

“Then do it. Have them holster their weapons,” Aizawa demands. 

“I will if you do, Aizawa-san.”

“Fucker,” Aizawa snarls under his breath. But when he turns to Matsuda, that anger evaporates, replaced by fear. They share a wary look among themselves, and left with no better option, comply. Tuck their revolvers away.

Light stays true to his word and motions to the guards who return their guns to the holsters beneath their suit jackets. 

“How’s that? We won’t get anywhere if you stay up there. So why don’t you come down?” 

One by one, they stand from the platform. Mogi rises first, having suffered the least damage. He’s bloodied and rattled, but shot nowhere lethal as far as Matsuda can see. Mogi then helps Ide up, arm draped around his back, and all Ide can do is hang limp at his side and submit to being carried along. Without aid, and with strained effort, Aizawa hauls himself up to join them. 

Matsuda staggers forward, notebook in one hand, lighter ignited in the other, and his team following close behind. The casing starts to overheat and burn his fingers, but fuck if that matters. He wants the threat to be real; it’s the only thing keeping them alive right now, and he wants Light to know the notebook could burn to non-existence at any moment. 

He forces his legs down the steps, relying on his right side to do most of the work. Despite their sorry state, the four of them manage to assist one another down the first flight of stairs. The guard Mogi shot comes into full view. Corpse splayed across the landing. They maneuver around the body, stepping over his draining skull, and as Matsuda's throat closes in, he opts to look anywhere but that dark red pool. 

Their descent down the last flight feels like courting death. Light waits for them at the foot of the stairs while the guards cluster off to the side, tall and impenetrable, shades covering any hint of expression. Soon enough, they come to stand on the same floor they entered this hell, eye level with their executioners.  

Mogi practically drags Ide with him and Aizawa isn’t doing much better, swaying on his feet, barely managing to catch himself. Matsuda remains in front because he needs to. Needs to keep strong. Even when his knee locking beneath his weight is the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

A chill rushes him when his shoe sends an object clinking across the floor. Brass cartridge. It joins the many others littered on the concrete. He gathers his senses and sets his sights straight ahead, walking them in the direction of the exit. Light backs himself up in tandem with Matsuda's own cautious steps forward. 

“We’re going to leave. You’re going to let us leave through that door,” Matsuda tells him. He prays he appears calm and in control as though this isn’t their shaky last resort, but he knows his movements betray him. Short and stilted and heart hammering in his chest, loud enough Light probably hears it.

“I thought we were going to talk.”

“We can talk. Light-kun, you… if you come with us. All we have to do is leave the warehouse together and then we’ll go from there. We can do this the right way.” He just– he needs to prevent this from becoming a shootout. “Okay? We’ll work something out.”

Matsuda inches forward until the exit is only a few paces away. Light pauses his movement when he can back up no further, figure framed by the door. He idles there for a moment then lowers his gaze. When he looks back up he’s earnest, he’s the boy Matsuda knew from early on in the investigation. He's the Chief’s son. Light nods and relief swells in Matsuda’s chest— until he understands all too late what that gesture indicates.

A shot rings out behind him. He whips around to find Aizawa with his gun unholstered straining in the grip of one of the bodyguards. A hole in the dilapidated floor smokes a short distance away. The man disarms Aizawa with a swift grab to his wrist and locks his arms behind his back. 

Matsuda reels as he witnesses the sudden struggle break out. “No!! Don’t move!” he orders. He watches helplessly as the men restrain and immobilize his team. It’s a one-sided fight, weak as they are, particularly Ide, injured to the point of being unable to stand on his own. He’s captured easily, tossed down then dragged to an upright position hanging slack from a guard’s hold. The men grapple with Mogi, frame strong and tall, but manage to wrestle him face down to the ground in a matter of seconds.  

Matsuda swerves back to Light. “I said– Stop!” The room spirals down, down, down. Situation slipping away— the lighter nearly slips from his fingers. He readjusts his grip, sears the metal to his skin, and motions wildly. “I’ll burn it!! Let them go!”

Light only stands there lax, unfazed by his threat. 

The tension behind Matsuda radiates out. “Don’t struggle.” The cold demand of the guards. “Stay still!” Their treatment only grows harsher, eliciting pained grunts and yelps.

“I’ve kept my promise that Takada’s guards won’t shoot, but you’ve forced my hand. I need some way to protect myself.” Light cocks his head like such a thing is obvious. A condescending gesture that says, It’s only fair. Like anything about this is fair. “It can’t be helped. Your side wouldn’t agree to drop your guns and you already killed one of my men. I’m willing to negotiate, Matsuda-san, but you haven’t given me an offer worth considering yet. Or maybe you didn’t think that far ahead?”

Fuck you. “Just let us leave and I’ll give you the notebook!” escapes his mouth.

Light looks him over with a jaded gaze. “That’s not your brightest plan. Far from it. If you do that, I could simply write your names the instant you exit the warehouse. Surely you know that, which is why I think you’re bluffing. You don’t intend on giving me the notebook at all.” 

The notebook’s cover creases in Matsuda’s fist. “Even so… even so, you need this. If this notebook no longer exists, Kira won’t, either. You need it, and I’ll burn it if you make any attempt to harm us.” The flame glows against the page, until it’s a hair’s breadth away from igniting. 

Light doesn’t flinch. Simply observes him with a patronizing demeanor.

“This is your last warning. Call them off and let us go,” Matsuda orders. Light doesn’t grant him a response and it leaves him scrambling for the right lines, the right cues. “Ide, Aizawa, Mogi and I will drive away from here and you can escape.” He can’t find them. Can’t get through. “We won’t take you in.” The more he guesses, the more the situation swirls down the drain. He lands on, “We’re leaving,” when it becomes too pathetic to keep going.

His weak assertion doesn’t mean anything, merely stagnates in the silence like the corpses of the SPK on the floor. Some spread face up with vacant eyes, others curled in on themselves. Near lies stiff at Light’s feet, rigor mortis settled into his jaw, the planes of his face. Shiny black dress shoes contrast tousled white hair. 

The tension boils to an unstable peak, liable to tip over at the drop of a hat. Light eyes his every move and Matsuda finds himself hyper aware of every shift with equal fervor. His eyes play tricks on him, catching light reflecting off dust particles floating in the sun. Long drips of blood leave a prickly trail down his leg that keep him second guessing, detecting touch that isn’t there. 

Only the two of them move freely, and Matsuda comes to understand with terrifying clarity that the spotlight shines down on him alone. It’s up to him. 

“We’re leaving through that door,” Matsuda insists again, but he may as well be begging. 

His eyes dart behind him to the others barely visible in his periphery, then back to Light who takes a step towards him.

“Stay right there!” Matsuda shouts. “Hands above your head!”

Light obliges, leisurely raising his arms. He lets out a small sigh, a thoughtful sound. “You know something? X-Kira, Mikami Teru… I told him to let you live.”

…

No. Liar.
But some part of him holds onto it, lets it sink it—
No, stop, it isn’t true.
It’s…

“Shut up!” Aizawa barks out behind him. “If you think we’d believe anything you have to say now—” The guard restraining him must put a stop to his words. Choke him with a tighter hold.

A rigidness creeps up Matsuda’s back, along with a fire in his lungs, his diaphragm. How dare you. He grinds his heels into the floor and looks Light dead in the eye. How dare you say such a thing. “Stop lying. You brought him here to write all our names. And you ordered Takada’s men to shoot us. You can’t seriously be trying to convince us otherwise…? You want us dead.”

“I don’t have to. I’d like to save you.” Light shows him a soft smile. “I ordered Mikami to let you live, Matsuda. You alone.”

Matsuda’s thumb digs into the sparkwheel and ignition button, grip impossibly tight on the lighter. His breathing all but stops, replaced by his pulse hammering in his temples. “What…” The rest of the Task Force’s presence behind him all at once looms heavy, their eyes like hot oil spilled down the back of his collar. “What are you talking about?” 

“Bastard,” he hears Ide spit. “Still spewing bullshit. Do you ever stop? So—” He must receive the same treatment Aizawa did, his sentence cut off. But unlike Aizawa, Ide grits the rest out, scraping back what little control they possess and choosing to add fuel to the fire. “—so fucking pathetic.” 

Light fixes Ide with a long stare. 

He then says, “Maybe I should tell them.” 

An inaudible What? leaves Matsuda’s mouth. 

“About us,” Light continues, gazing past him. “You’ve been in denial over it, but I suspect you’ve known for some time—” He speaks to Matsuda, but keeps eye contact with the others. “—that I’m Kira. Am I right?” 

Light’s made his identity plenty clear since the SPK dropped dead, but it’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and there’s a crack in reality that comes with hearing those surreal words straight from Light’s mouth.

“No. No. I didn’t know.”  

(Liar.)

He follows desperately with his gaze as Light walks a few paces across the floor. Fluid and casual, unconcerned with Matsuda’s distress.

“You knew. I all but told you outright. Give yourself some credit, Matsuda, you’re not so dense. You knew, and yet you still followed me to bed every night. Not only that, you begged for it.”

(He’d known.)

“I didn’t know,” Matsuda repeats through choppy breaths. “Light-kun, I didn’t know. I didn’t.”

“And you knew this would happen, too. You knew I’d kill everyone here today.” 

“…” 

“Kira spares those who do the right thing, and you’re a good person; I told you as much last night. But there are sacrifices that must be made for the greater good. From our conversation, I thought you shared the same sentiment.” 

“No!” Matsuda’s answer echoes off the walls. He veers away, mouth contorting in a scowl. “Don’t- don’t say that. Never this. Not like this.” 

“Is there any point in saving face now?” Light’s eyes land on a presence behind Matsuda. Lock on and relish in hitting their target. “Hey, Aizawa-san.”

Don’t. Please.

“Did you know all that? No?”

Matsuda risks taking his eyes off Light to find Aizawa. He wishes he hadn’t. Everything about Aizawa holds this pain. It’s not the fury or the fire he’s used to being on the receiving end of, but something raw, something burned. “What…? What is he saying? He’s lying,” Aizawa pleads with him.

“It’s- we-” His words lodge in his throat, any possible explanations running dry. “Aizawa, I’m sorry, this– it’s not what I wanted, it’s not…” he trails off, voice very small. Nothing substantial would come out, anyway. “I’m sorry.” He wants to apologize until his voice gives out —and that wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t change this— but words will become vomit. 

Light spares him a glance. “So you’ve given up denying it. Is that all? Well, I guess there isn’t much left to say.” No immediate response from Aizawa this time, only palpable silence. “Heh, that expression’s pretty scary, Aizawa-san. What’s the matter? Is it that big a shock?”

When Aiawa’s voice does hit his ears, it’s low and seething. “Matsuda, you… How could you…” 

And his own voice comes out a broken warble. “No, no, I thought he’d keep us safe, I thought—” 

“You can’t be serious. You knew?” Aizawa cuts him off. “You knew and just- just accepted it. Because you and Light were always together– god, fuck, of course you were always together. You sleep with him and now we’re just in the way–” His words catch. “–so stupid. I was so stupid. It was staring me right in the face and I…” 

Matsuda opens his mouth to say- he’s not sure what. It wouldn't matter because Aizawa’s impossible to reach now, head hanging limp from his shoulders to grimace at the floor. It’s all wrong, all ruined. He broke it and if he dares touch it, it’ll only crumble further. He can’t bring himself to gauge the others’ reactions. Mogi. Ide…

“I told you they’d never understand,” Light tells him.

His vision tunnels in on the blood smeared muddy red on the lighter’s casing, caked under his nails, and when he manages to pull himself back to reality, Light’s right there in front of him. Matsuda clutches the notebook to his chest and raises the lighter's flame in front of his face— god, he must look truly pitiful. He feels lower than dirt.

Light reaches out to him. And Matsuda backs away like a scared animal. “Don’t…! Don’t come any closer…” But his footsteps falter, uncertain. He’s weak, so weak, legs shaking and blood pooled in his shoe. Light follows him easily, his presence draping over him like a blanket and not at all like the threat he expected him to be. He places a hand on his shoulder and looks at him kindly.

“It’s okay. I’m here.” Light takes in the way he trembles with a sympathetic look. “You’ve tried so hard for so long, trying to be someone good enough for them. Trying to do the right thing by their standards. You don’t have to try anymore, Matsuda.” 

Matsuda speaks no louder than a whisper. “I said don’t. Don’t touch me. I’m not– I can’t-” Don’t tell me those things.

“You can let go. It’s okay.”

That sweeps over him like a cool breeze and it’s the first time he’s breathed all day. He needs to reject those words. 

He should.

And yet they sink into him and mend his broken, useless self. Unlock someone very small in him who’s been crying all alone for a long, long time now. No one knew. Nobody knew he was there, no one until Light.

He’s tried so many times. Completed the menial tasks handed to him and played office idiot, smiled and laughed and took up space no one asked him to occupy. Existed outside his body and lugged it around like an extra weight every day and spent each following night in his mess of an apartment because clean was empty and empty was always so much worse, unable to sleep, staring holes through the ceiling and wondering if he’d last another day. No one saw. Same cycle of swimming upstream just to avoid being swallowed up, all the while making no progress, over and over, until he all but lost himself. And he doesn’t know how to try anymore. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know—

“Matsuda!” Ide yells out hoarse behind him. “Burn it! Now, do it now!”

“I…” His thumb presses white into the ignition switch, flame swaying in his grip, blue and yellow light burning an imprint in his vision. Metal burning his fingers. It’d be agonizing if he could feel anything outside of the distress impaling his gut. “I—” He shakes his head slowly. Chokes out, “No, Light-kun, I can’t.” 

Light’s touch slides down his arm, bringing himself closer, and face-to-face like this Matsuda can nearly breathe him in. Familiar scent of his detergent, the one he’s gotten used to. 

“It’s been lonely, right? There’s no reason to carry on that way, chasing that unreachable goal. It’s too painful.” 

Yes, it’s painful. He’s barely able to hold his head above water, in the devastating reality of it all. He can never seem to keep up because there’s something inherently wrong with him, and one day he’ll be stranded all alone. It’s scary, so scary. He hates it.

“Isn’t it?” Ah, right. Light expects an answer.

“Yes… it’s lonely,” he finds himself saying. There’s no one, and when he messes up, which he will, which he already has, the others only manage to drift further away. Actually, there’s no chance in hell they’ll take him back now, huh? They… yeah. There’s no way. “I don’t have a place here,” he comes to understand aloud. He’s thought it countless times, but the words hold a newfound weight as they leave his mouth for the first time.

“I don’t want to leave you here where no one wants you,” Light says. “So if you’d like, I’ll stay. I’ll stay right here by your side.” His voice quiets to a gentle hum, beautiful warmth flooding his tone. “You don’t have to be all alone anymore.” 

It’s a lie, it’s probably a lie, and yet– yet.  

Please, please stay, please don’t go, claws up his throat.

When he fails to respond, Light sighs and pivots on his heel. Matsuda watches the back of his jacket draw farther away. Out of reach. The familiar disappointment flickers in his heart and burns, eats away at it. He’s messed up again. He’s fucked it all up and Light isn’t even surprised. 

“I can’t make that decision for you. It’s your choice.”

Matsuda’s thumb leaves the lighter and the flame flickers out. It drops from his fist and clatters to the concrete with a loud clack. No, he shouldn’t have. But he did. 

“Matsuda…!” Ide’s voice—

“See? There. That was the hard part. And you’ve done so well.” Light’s presence returns and he’s looking at him again, smiling softly, and Matsuda basks in the comfort of having earned back his attention. Light’s favor soothes the panic in his chest. Dulls the screaming in his head. A thumb smooths over his shoulder. “So well…” Those beautiful hands of his. 

He leans into the touch. He loves it. It’s disgusting.

He’s not sure what his body was about to do. Spasm? Bolt away? He doesn’t know because Light holds him firmly in place. “Matsuda, it’s alright. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re alright.” 

Matsuda nods, maybe. He thinks he nods.

“The world as it is now is far from perfect. You know that better than anyone. I don’t want to leave it like this because I can’t stand to see you hurt. It beats down honest people like you, people like Yagami Soichiro. I wanted to accomplish a perfect world with my dad still in it, but…” Light’s eyes go glassy and Matsuda feels a pang in his chest. 

“I couldn’t make it a reality in time.” Light looks off with knitted brows, a pained smile. “But it’s not for nothing, because The New World will come to fruition starting today. It’s for people like you, Matsuda. You’re who I want living in it, finding happiness there. You deserve that happiness— humanity does. More than anything, I want to show you that place. Nearly every obstacle is gone and it’s so close and we could see it together. If you’ll let me.”

“I…” Matsuda says quietly, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t? Or just scared to say it?” The question is warm on his ear, Light leaned in close. 

The air heats around him like an oven. Dry and stuffy, filling his throat. “I just want to…” He’s suffocating. “…Want to do the right thing.”

“So do I.”

Maybe he’d like to believe in a god after stumbling around lost all his life.

It would be lovely. It would be easy. Wrapped up and following Light’s lead has always been so alluringly simple; guided step by step, held securely in his hands with each twist and turn. Why on earth should he want to ruin that dance? Why trip and fall now? It’s a small stage Light’s provided him, and it may not seem like much, but it’s everything. It’s a place to fit and it’s where he’s come to live, in that sliver of spotlight. In that taste of utopia.

Where else does he exist outside of it? This dream that’s too good to be true.

He’d love to believe in it.

“It’s okay…? Okay to let go?” Matsuda asks, so quiet he’s not sure he spoke at all, merely mouthed the words.

Light beams with that smile he doesn’t show just anyone. “You’re the only one who could, Matsuda. You’re the only one who ever got it. You said so yourself, it’s the way the world is meant to be.”

“We couldn’t– we were never able to stop it. We’ve been trying to prevent Kira’s influence for so long, but it’s a losing battle and maybe we… Maybe we shouldn’t be. We shouldn’t be,” he decides. If the world’s already chosen, then who are they to rip it away? Light’s been rebuilding it for a long time now, and they’ve been doing what exactly? What are they fighting for? In truth, he hasn’t known the answer for a long time now.

“Just us two. I want you to live alongside me in the world I create. Start anew. Everything else… it’s not worth it.”

“Us two?”

“You can make that happen. You’ll make the right choice, I know you will.”

Ide’s blood still coats his hands. Drips hot down his fingertips onto the stone cold floor.

“You and me. You want that too.” Light raises his hand from Matsuda’s shoulder to trail up his neck, caresses his cheek. “Because you love me.” Then his touch lowers to grace the Death Note. 

Matsuda pulls away a fraction, bringing the cover close to his chest. Light cocks his head, looking him over with an unimpressed gaze. He opens his mouth perhaps to scold him, but closes it when Matsuda thumbs open the notebook’s pages.

He meets Light’s eyes. “…I’ll write their names.”

There’s a reaction from his team; startled protest, cursing, some strangled noise on the verge of hysteria— but he can’t hear it, not really, his heartbeat in his ears.

Light’s eyes flash with pride, with something hot and manic, then relax into contentment. The happiest Matsuda’s seen him in years. 

“Oh? I thought using the notebook wasn’t justice?”

“Kira is justice– you’re justice. I know that now. No… I’ve always known that.”

“Show me.”

And so Matsuda presses his blood soaked finger to the page and begins to write.

Chapter Text

_____________________

“Our task force never really mattered in the long run, did we? Left on our own without L, we didn’t get close. Five entire years of nothing. God, it just- it all felt so hopeless. And I would sometimes wonder why we even bother trying. It was always like that, every day coming into work. I mean, didn’t you feel it…?”

“Those times weren’t all bad, though. I might even… I’ll miss them. Very much so,” Ide told him one night ago. 

Matsuda couldn’t wrap his head around it at the time— why Ide cherished days filled with such misery.

He grips the Death Note by the spine and watches as his finger drags across the page, as though it’s someone else doing it. Red, streaked haphazardly across college-ruled white. The smell of it is all around, fresh blood from the still-warm body of the guard sprawled across the stairs, seeping from the members of his team he was supposed to help protect, all-encompassing and walling him in. Near and the SPK agents dead and gone, hearts stopped and cold and defeated and empty.

His own red writing stares him in the face and he can’t dance around this anymore.

…  

The world has changed, perhaps for the better. That may be true. Light saw those suffering and sought to solve it, but they’ve only found new ways to suffer. Fear ran them ragged to the point of no return for six years straight and all they could do was watch from their failing, run-down theater of an investigation, audience to the bright and beautiful stage Light stands on, the same stage Light is so kindly offering him now. 

The utopia Light wants to create doesn’t exist; that ideal paradise. Matsuda knows that. He does.

The reality is rotten and ugly, but they’re living proof of those tortuous days. They mattered. They mattered, it was real, it wasn’t for nothing— and he’d miss it. 

Hours spent settled on a couch by Ide’s side.

Sometimes winding him up just for fun, because it was something to do. Because he liked how Ide would flash that disapproving look, how he’d scoff and wave him off, but ultimately give himself away. Smile behind his eyes.

Tired nights when loopiness took over and painted HQ a brighter color.

When they’d make their way to the station after work, guided by street lamps lit heavenly white. Meandering through alleys filled with izakayas, people smoking and eating in the early hours after slaving away at their jobs. Skyscrapers towering over their small selves while they talked about everything and nothing at all.

Trying to keep their voices low on the train, but Ide would still make him laugh from his chest.

Hands under Ide’s jacket in the car. Shared fear. Warm touch. So stupidly gentle he could cry.

He wants to be here, steeped in those small moments. Even when it’s far from perfect, even when they’re drowning in it. Those fragile, messy, precious things are worth more than words can explain. 

If it’s the four of them alone together in the shadow of the entire world siding against them, he’ll take it. The rest of the Task Force probably hate him, but he can’t stomach letting them go when he understands to the very depth of his core the devastation of being left behind. 

Besides, a world without Ide isn’t a utopia. 

I’m sorry. So sorry. 

(And despite what others may think, he’s actually quite a good actor.)

He’s written the first character of the name in what must be half a second, though he could swear it’s been hours. But it’s not hours and half a second is all it takes for Light to catch on.

“Idiot,” Light seethes through his teeth. He claws the notebook from Matsuda’s hands, nails hooking on skin as it tears away. “Whose name do you think you’re writing…?”

Light’s eyes are dark hatred, and Matsuda finds his heart dropping in response, body struck with an icy sweat. That person isn’t Light. No, not him, not that man who glowers at him with deep-seated contempt. 

A cackle scrapes Matsuda’s eardrum. He’d forgotten Ryuk’s presence lurking at the far side of the warehouse. Jagged outline in the dark.

He should do something. Perhaps beg for Ryuk’s help as futile as that would surely be, or wrestle Light to the ground, or run away or do anything, but the only thing he manages is staring transfixed at his hands coated red. He staggers forward a few steps and then he’s slumped over, his body simply giving up on him. Incapable of standing on his own two feet. 

Light chokes out a disparaging laugh. “—kill me. You were going to kill me.” He sucks in a breath and composes himself, then scans Matsuda over coldly, taking in his pitiable state on the floor. “Did you even realize it yourself?”

“No, I…” Running on instinct, he hadn’t. Not exactly. Still, a part of him wanted to. Wanted to end this. But he couldn’t do it in time— rather, he hesitated. Maybe Chief Yagami wouldn’t let him finish writing the name because the Chief couldn’t use the notebook to take a life in the end and Matsuda can’t bring himself to, either. 

“I can’t believe I thought you might actually get it. I had hope for you, Matsuda. For a while I thought you weren’t as stupid as you seemed, but you just keep going and proving me wrong.” Light’s face drops for a beat. Voice quiets. “You know, I really thought you…” There’s something distant in his gaze and he doesn’t finish whatever thought he has aloud. “It doesn’t matter. What a disappointment. Waste of my time.” He pulls a pen from his breast pocket.

He’s going to kill me. The realization pierces Matsuda’s brain but his limbs won’t move.

Then, as though reading his mind, Light says, “Don’t worry, I’m not writing your name.” 

Relief washes over Matsuda. He’s still important to Light. Light can’t get rid of him; he still means something. 

Disgusting. The blood starts to dry dark and tacky on his palms, sinking in the creases of his fingers. Any leftover adrenaline smothering his pain response has long since trickled away, and the wound in his leg stabs through like an ice pick. Would it be too cowardly to pass out? Unforgivable? But he’s not sure he can help it at this point as the black fuzz that clouds his vision becomes all the more appealing, and he sort of wants to sink into it and pull the curtain on this entire thing. 

Light’s shoes tap the floor a few strides past him. “I’m going to write Ide-san’s.”

What?  

That tempting, merciful darkness clears as Matsuda whips around, eyes locked on Light’s movement. “Wh-what do you mean? What?” What?  

Light cracks open the notebook. “What’s so hard to understand?” Flips to a clean page.

“No. No. You can’t do that.”

“I can. It’s what needs to be done.” Light speaks to him as though scolding a child for being unreasonable. And Matsuda has half a mind to believe him— that it’s very silly for him to be interfering and if he were good he would simply shut up and let Light do his work.

Light continues, “You never needed him. You never needed any of them, and they’ve made it plenty clear they don’t give a damn about you. Their lives are meaningless. All you had to do was shed the dead weight and take the opportunity I so graciously handed you, but no. It took you too long to get that through your thick skull, so your name will join Ide-san’s shortly after. …Unless you come to your senses.”

The next expression Light shoots him twists his stomach. Mocking. “Do you think you can do that? I doubt it. You had your chance and look what you did with it.”

Matsuda seeks out Ide in a panic, maybe just to make sure he’s still alive, and he is, nothing’s happened yet but– shit– shit. Ide’s body hangs slack in the guard’s hold, face drained of color and features paralyzed in shock. And then in some innate cry for survival, he’s lurching forward against the restraints, panic causing his body to struggle out of his control. He’ll only bleed worse—  Matsuda’s fear proven true by the dark patch rapidly spreading from shoulder to waist where the guard’s grip digs in. 

Matsuda’s nerves light on fire. “Stop! Just- just wait.” The warehouse starts to spin, so he presses his fists to the concrete floor. “Please, Light-kun, please don’t do this. I’m sorry, so please…! You don’t- don’t have to- you don’t…” Whatever empties from his mouth comes out an unintelligible, feverish mess, and none of it seems to reach Light, who carries on like he isn’t there at all.

“You were always…” Light readjusts his grip on the pen, shine caught on its metallic surface. “…a lost cause.” Sound of nib scratching paper. He—

He’s already done it. The notebook drops from Light’s hands as he buckles and falls. His back hits the ground with what must be a loud and brutal thud, but Matsuda can’t hear it; all that fills his ears is the boom of his gun firing, once, twice. Aimed for his hand, then the shoulder. A low buzz pulses in his head, growing louder with each thud of his heart.

Light lies there, mouth gaping open in disbelief before twisting in wild fury. “Bastard…!!” Skin skids and slips on blood-soaked ground as he tries to prop himself up only to collapse back where he started.

His body writhes not far from Ide’s feet, and the bodyguard restraining him reacts instantly, reaching for his gun. Ide takes that opening and uses the last of his strength to struggle hard. The guard snaps to attention. Reaches for Ide’s arm and shoulder to lock them back into place, but he’s not quick enough. Ide breaks free of his hold, landing on hands and knees. 

“Kill them!! Kill them now…!” Light’s cry echoes, a raw, violent sound.

Matsuda watches from the floor as the bodyguard Ide escaped staggers back, visibly caught off-guard. But he’s got his gun in hand now. The next rounds fired are impossible to stop— it all happens so fast; the slide of the Glock being pulled back and the flash of light prompting a burst of bullets. The man twists awkwardly, firing haphazardly as Ide clambers too close to accurately aim. The gunshots cease. Ide narrowly avoided the line of fire, but he won’t be so lucky next time. He drags his body across the ground like it’s an anchor, and it is, as his fight leaves him and fatigue takes over. He won’t get far like that. He won’t make it. The man towering over him loads another magazine.

Ide.

Matsuda raises his revolver and aims, kneecap grinding into concrete. 

Ide.

It’s a clear target. And it’s not a question. The guard steadies himself and aims a fatal shot at Ide, but Matsuda fires before he’s able to pull the trigger. The guard falters in place and it hits- it must hit as blood spills over his face, still, Matsuda yanks back the trigger a second time, a third, and he’s met with a click, another click. He ran through his five round cylinder, last cartridge emptied preventing Ide’s death. But it worked. The man crumples to the ground. Lies motionless.

Matsuda remains crouched in place, gun positioned to shoot despite the uselessness of it. There’s no sound. No warehouse, no bodies. Just the silver frame of the chambers, smoke wafting up, metal smoothed and curved along his index finger. It’s the panicked rise and fall of Ide’s chest in his periphery that snaps him out of it. Ide hunkers there, eyes wide and scared and searching Matsuda’s, and still very much alive. Thank god. Ide makes an attempt to stand but can’t manage it. And then he continues to exert himself, hand searching aimlessly under his jacket for his revolver. Matsuda wants to yell and plead with him to stay still. Stop, you’ll die, you’ll die.

Shouts erupt to Matsuda’s right, and it’s only then that he understands Ide’s urgency. There’s a blur of motion he can’t track. Bodies clamor over one another. Mogi’s pried his arms loose from his guard’s hold and now grapples with him, trying to gain the upper-hand, and Aizawa seizes the chance to tumble forward and snatch his gun from the floor. Shots echo and boom. The space devolves to chaos, and Matsuda finds himself lost in a fog of inaction. It’s absurd, sitting and watching as it all slips through his fingers. He needs to move, use his legs, and there’s still—

The notebook.  

Even shot and wounded, Light has one goal. The afternoon light catches on his fingers, slick with blood, as they reach a black cover.

That catapults Matsuda’s brain into working order and he hauls himself up. Lunges forward. Exhales out, “Won’t let you. I won’t let you,” in a half-conscious rage. His body gets ahead of Light and he lands his shoe squarely on top of the Death Note. With a jerk of his foot, it easily rips from Light’s grasp. 

Light looks up at him from the floor and Matsuda looks back. 

Light’s eyes shine clear and young, even now. It’s only a moment —just a moment— but they exist outside of the struggle unraveling around them. If things had been different… If only things had been different. An initial sickness envelops Matsuda that melts to sadness. Then an odd sense of peace. 

He chose to believe those eyes many times. And perhaps it was foolish, (it was) but if there’s one thing he’s certain wasn’t a lie, it was Light’s loneliness. Their first day back at headquarters after raiding Mello’s Mafia base and the death of the Chief, there was a palpable shift. It’s typical of Light to keep it together, to remain composed and calm in tough situations, but that time was different. He’d been so quiet. So blank. 

Night fell and the others left HQ to allow Light time alone with his grief. Matsuda recalls he’d been the last to leave.

___________

The lights are off. He’d flick the switch on, but it almost seems inappropriate. HQ is better kept dark like this, memories hidden from their sight. Everything; the spaces between the desks and walls, the plain beige furniture, the filing cabinets crammed too full… it’s all colder, somehow. It’s incomplete and far too much all at once. He hates looking at it. 

The silence is deafening.

Light's figure stands cloaked in shadow across the room, frame of mind unreadable. He looks out over the cityscape that glitters especially pretty tonight, loud and alight with life, and it strikes Matsuda with resentment he knows is irrational— but it’s still there. Because how can the world keep going now that the Chief’s gone? How can things be beautiful, or even normal again, now that he’s left them to do this alone?

Matsuda opens his mouth only to shut it. He should say some parting words, but the specifics elude him. He longs to reach out and place a hand on Light’s shoulder, but he doubts his clumsy attempts at consolation can breach this atmosphere with words, much less physical touch. 

When the quiet fills the room like wet cement and the weight becomes unbearable, his voice leaves him without his permission, whether what comes out is the right thing to say or not.

“I miss him, too.” It’s an understatement. He’s been racked with grief to the point of throwing up his breakfast every morning. The Chief was their stability —his only stability— and so dear god, what are they supposed to do? What the hell does he do now…? 

He won’t bring up such a thing. He doesn’t have a right to grieve the Chief more than his own son does. 

“Light-kun, I’m so sorry.”

There’s no immediate reply. Light’s back still faces him. A pang shoots through Matsuda’s arm; his bones ache, broken and bandaged from the explosion. He fidgets with a piece of gauze hanging off his cast. Twists it. Frays it. He wishes he could disappear.

“I didn’t want him to make the deal for the Eyes.” Light’s voice surprises him. “None of this was supposed to happen.”

Matsuda swallows. “I know.” He didn’t want the Chief to go through with it, either. If things had been different, if only he’d taken Ryuk’s deal like he was supposed to and died instead of Chief Yagami— “I wanted to. I mean, I would have made the deal, but—”

“Well you didn’t!” Light shouts, turning to face him with a quick, nearly violent swerve. 

The sudden flash of hostility is entirely unlike Light. It sinks Matsuda's stomach to his feet. He stumbles back a step, head blank.

Light’s eyes widen in realization. He promptly averts his gaze, seemingly frustrated. There’s a beat. “Sorry.” He drags a hand down his face. “It’s not your fault,” he says flatly. “I’m just tired. Very tired.”

More agonizing silence. There's no more loose gauze for Matsuda to tangle between his fingers, so he picks at the skin around his nail instead.

Light's fists clench at his sides. He exhales out, nearly inaudibly, “…I let him take the Eyes and then the plan failed. It failed.”

“It…!” Matsuda recovers quickly. “It wasn’t your fault, either!” Has Light been blaming himself? “Your dad– he left this world proud of you. He always talked about you, Light-kun, even before your time on the case. You were his pride. I doubt there’s anything you could do to disappoint him. It’s not like you planned for Ryuk to show up here. For any of this. The Chief didn’t blame you, he knows you tried. You must know that—”

“Don’t.” Light puts a hand up, voice hard. “Just don’t… say anything. Please.” He lowers his head, hair hiding his eyes. This version of Light is somehow foreign, and Matsuda once again finds himself at a loss. 

No one says a word. The room falls black as ink, confirming how late it is, and Matsuda figures he should be on his way. His presence here certainly isn’t helping. He turns to leave after one more painfully stretched minute.

When he reaches the front door, something tugs at the sleeve of his good arm. The smallest “Eh?” pops from his mouth. 

“Are you going home?” Light asks quietly behind him. 

“What?”

“You’re leaving?” Light repeats. It’s a strange thing for someone sharp as Light to ask, obvious as the answer is. He’s usually the one lacking in common sense, Light is… well, Light’s in an entirely different league. 

“I—” Perhaps… “Um, do you want me to stay?”

Light tightens his grip on the fabric. “You don’t have to.”

“I can.”

“It’d be a bother, wouldn’t it? It’s getting late. You’ll miss the last train.” So Light says, but his hold remains, keeping Matsuda firmly rooted in place. 

He sometimes forgets Light’s capable of acting childish like this. It fills Matsuda with relief, really. Makes Light seem less impenetrable, like there’s someone he can approach beneath the perfect exterior.

“I’ll stay.” He shows Light a gentle smile. “I want to stay.”

Only then, does Light let his sleeve go.

Long fingers glide over his hand and pull him back into the dark comfort of the room. 

Lead him upstairs to his bedroom. 

Trail up behind his neck, his ear, through his hair. Press him down into smooth cotton sheets.

Light kisses him and it’s a surprise, but he doesn’t want to question it.

And Matsuda, held in the sanctity of Light’s touch, confirms, Oh. I love him.

___________

That was the first of many, many late nights.

There’s the semblance of a person in Light’s eyes, someone who could have lived a life outside of Kira. A young man with a bright future who had the capacity for remorse, grief, shame— however buried he kept them. Matsuda caught a glimpse of something genuine that first night they shared, but all recalling it succeeds in doing is making him hold a greater pity for Light.  

Matsuda looks at him, really looks at him. The image of Light he obediently followed for years —and it had been second nature, natural as breathing— is now intangible. It’s riddled with wounds he inflicted. Soft hair, now disheveled, falls across Light’s face. Jacket soaked through. Slender wrist and long fingers dyed red. Ah, he ruined that beautiful hand. Shot clean through it. He’s sorry, he’s really sorry for that. If things had been different.  

They’re not.

He does love Light. Always has.

But that alone isn’t enough.

Their gaze breaks to fall on the Death Note under Matsuda’s shoe, pages bent and dirtied and pressed into the ground. 

Matsuda kicks his foot out. It sends the notebook sliding far across the concrete, landing somewhere within the shadows at the opposite wall. 

“You—” The clear shine in Light’s eyes ignites to white-hot venom. “Useless idiot!!” And the strange peace Matsuda experienced goes up in flames. 

Light backs himself up on the floor with wild desperation. “Shoot! Kill him!” he yells to no one in particular. 

A million thoughts swarm Matsuda’s head, no time afforded to decipher a single one. Ide’s voice floats in the background. Matsuda! Down! Get down!! It grows louder and closer, barreling up behind him.

Hands clench down on his shoulders. “Now!” There’s a push to his back that knocks the wind out of him. A sea of gray fills his vision as his knees buckle and he topples forward. He’s mere centimeters from the ground when he hears the bang. Another shot follows, then a piercing yell. 

Matsuda’s bones lie flush with the floor. Caught himself on his forearms. The fall reverberates through him, and it probably hurts— it hurts intensely, but what holds his attention is the unusual stillness, the quiet. It’s as though the earlier chaos were sucked into a vacuum. It comes as a relief initially, a shred of hope that it’s finally over and they’re safe, but the longer the silence sits, the more it prickles cold down the back of Matsuda’s neck. When his thoughts finally untangle, he registers the weight on his back. It covers him, surrounds him, accompanied by a steady drip, drip, drip.

Anxiety simmers under his skin. “Ide… Ide—” he calls out. 

Ide rolls off his back, limp like a rag doll. Matsuda’s heart drops. He scrambles to his side, expecting the worst, but Ide’s breathing. His pulse still beats along his windpipe.

Ide weakly clutches at his chest. “What… what do I…” he gasps.

Matsuda searches wet fabric, focus ping-ponging from Ide’s eyes wide with shock to the new wound that joins the others. Shot full of holes. Bullet went through his back. Exited out his chest– somewhere in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do. “No, this– this– We’ll get help,” Matsuda chokes out. He doesn’t know. Molten hot dread courses down his spine. 

The dripping continues, beat echoing in his temple. Over and over and over, tortuously. The drops quickly collect in a growing pool, and Ide has the gall to tell him, “Yeah, I’m… okay, I think I’m okay, just…” Those words hold no meaning. Ide coughs and blood mixes with spit, speckles his shirt. 

Matsuda flicks his gaze back to the two bodyguards remaining to find one dead, the other pinned and cuffed beneath Mogi. 

“Mogi! Aizawa…!” he yells. “Help! We need to- we need to get help! Ide, he’s—” 

Mogi starts to make his way over, but then something horrific clicks and his movement halts. “Light…” His face pales as he looks out across the empty floor. “Where?!”

He’s gone.

A trail of red dots the ground. Matsuda follows it to find a hunched-over figure. Light’s traveled a considerable distance; reached the shadows that drape the oil tanks at the far side, the Death Note hidden somewhere within that stretch of dark. He sways slightly, arm dangling at his side, nearly eclipsed in shadow and out of sight.

“The note—!” someone shouts. 

It’s a blind shot, Light’s form barely visible. But it hits somewhere, and Light goes down with a pained scream.

Aizawa kneels with his revolver raised. Muzzle smoking. He keeps it aimed for a beat longer before his arms give out and Matsuda can practically see his spirit collapse in on itself.

Aizawa then lugs his body up. He lurches past Matsuda without so much as a glance, keen on getting to Ide’s side. The shot in his gut makes each movement strenuous, but he continues, duty-bound to his team. The way a person should be.

Heat wells in Matsuda’s eyes. A flood of words enter his head, but his mouth goes dry and he’s unable to speak them. I’m sorry. I tried, I really tried, he wants to explain to Aizawa, but it’ll sound like another cheap excuse. And part of him can’t deny that “tried” doesn’t mean shit when the lives of those he’s supposed to hold dear are at stake. 

Light’s magnetic pull kept him comfortably in his orbit, and the longer he stayed, the less he desired to acknowledge the black hole swallowing the rest of his universe.

He rejects Light now. He chooses his team now. But now isn’t soon enough… is it?

Mogi yanks on the cuffs of the guard he managed to capture, bringing them both to their feet, and joins Aizawa. They help how they can. Examining the wounds. Applying pressure. Positioning Ide on his side and instructing him to breathe out. Staying calm despite the grim prospects in relation to the bullet’s location.

Matsuda crouches beside them, but he’s watching from the outside. “What… what can I do?” He internally recoils before he finishes the question. He’s done enough. Already shattered their trust beyond repair. It lies in bloody pieces on the warehouse floor.

Like the crack of a whip, Aizawa twists to face him. He doesn’t need to curse him out loud, the pain and rage etches itself into his form, and it’s enough to make Matsuda’s blood run cold. He expected that wrath, and still it destroys him.

“Quick. Go.” 

Matsuda only provides a blank stare in response. 

“Go!” Aizawa jerks his head in the direction where Light lies. “Restrain him. Cuff him. Unless you…” His anger flickers out, replaced with sorrow. “Unless you’re still planning on letting us die?” And now Aizawa’s only a shell, his strong resolve scraped hollow. He looks up at Matsuda with a resigned smile. “You’re just going to do as Kira tells you…?”

That crashes into him like a train.

Wordlessly, Matsuda draws himself up. His gaze falls to the ground as he watches his shoes edge across dirt and grime and blood stains. One shaky step after another. Sunlight no longer shines from above. Must be late in the day. He can’t begin to puzzle out how long they’ve been here, may as well have been years of his life. A decade. 

He’s terrified of what he’ll find in the dark. He doesn’t want to go there, doesn’t want to see it. But he limps forward until he’s swallowed up in the shadows where Light resides because it’s the least he can do.

What hits him first is the sound. Heavy drag of wet fabric. That beautiful suit is surely ruined, stuck to Light’s form, to his heaving chest as he gulps down air, only to produce choked garbles. As Matsuda’s vision adjusts, he’s met with a body sticky and red. He strains uselessly forward, unable to move more than a few inches. 

His fingers flex and tremble. Matsuda’s not certain he’ll ever be able to hold a pen again… or use that hand at all. He discerns the outline of the notebook as Light struggles for it. 

Still— still. That’s all he can think of. 

Light claws forward despite his declining state. “Who the hell do you think you are?!” He spews vitriol between labored, “All of you…” guttural, “You ungrateful—” gasps, “—fools!”

Matsuda reaches for Light’s back as he moves to apprehend him. He’s barely touched him when Light lashes out, a sudden onset of panic racking his body. “No! Get off– Stop! Don’t come near me!” He’s so weakened it hardly matters. Matsuda overpowers him, grabbing his thrashing limbs in an armlock behind his back. In a matter of seconds, he has Light pinned in place, face down.

Light rakes his cheek across the concrete, still searching the floor. “The notebook…” His hands are restrained. It’s physically impossible for him to reach it. Surely he knows so…? “I just- I need to write!!” 

He’s losing it, and it’s like Matsuda never knew him at all. Like he’s looking down at a stranger.

His voice breaks with a wet rasp. “Stop. Don’t struggle.” And then he’s whispering it, repeating it. Begging with Light. “Stop… stop. Stay still. Please. You’ll only bleed out faster.” His body screams at him as he holds Light down using his full weight, and the fury and exhaustion fuse into a type of misery beyond words.

Half-formed protests spill from Light’s mouth in a fugue state. “Kira… he’s the only one preserving order. The world needs a god, and I’m the only one, only one who can… I had to make things right—” 

“Light, that’s enough. It’s over.”

“Matsuda…!” he exclaims, like he just registered his presence. “I had no choice! I had to act as Kira. The others… they aren’t worth it. To create a peaceful world, for the greater good, their lives are a small price to pay. Don’t you see that…?” 

They’re worth protecting. How dare he tell him they’re not. “No god would throw them away. How can you…” throw us away?

Light continues, unhearing, “You get it. I know you do— Kira’s importance. You always did! It’s not too late, you- you can still write their names. I know you understand, so write them! You have to write!”

He burrows deeper into the pit he’s dug. He can’t get himself out. Probably hasn’t been able to for a long time. 

Did you want me to tell you it was okay? Irreversibly entrenched in his choices, Light craved the approval. Is that it?  

Matsuda knows the flavor of that feeling well; seeking that acceptance. But what Light wants, he can’t give him. When Light tugged on his sleeve that first night back in Japan and beckoned him back again and again, fed him lines that prompted him to open up— it all seems so obvious now. 

…You need me more than I need you… The thought rings inexplicably loud and lucid in his head, and he’s not even sure he completely believes it, yet it manifests clear as a bell. 

He realizes it exited his mouth when the fighting stops and the body beneath him goes rigid. Light twists to meet his eye, a stilted, slow turn of his head. His skin washes white over stunned features. Mouth cracks open but emits no sound. He's… daunted. Years of caked-on lie atop lie in thick layers are chipped away and peeled back to expose someone real he wasn't supposed to see. This doesn’t last —and Matsuda questions whether he witnessed it at all— as Light's expression sinks to deep malice. 

The words spill from Matsuda involuntarily, “You needed me so you could justify it to yourself.” It’s an untapped flow and he can’t stop. “And it’s because you know. Somewhere deep down you know what you’ve done is wrong. You can’t admit it because… because it’d destroy you.” 

There’s some choked sound in response. Strangled revolt.

“You’re no god, Light-kun,” he breathes out. All out of options, hair matted and damp with sweat, twitching and writhing, blood streaming from raw punctures— he’s no god. He’s so very human. 

“I don’t need you,” Light spits. But it’s another lie added to the pile coated in something sickly black, something deeply sad.

Matsuda’s fingers search his belt until they find the smooth rings of the handcuffs. The metallic jangle prompts Light to use the last of his strength to kick out like a feral animal with no regard for his fresh wounds. Red paints the ground in alarming amounts.

“Stay down!” Matsuda manages to contain the burst of movement, knee pinning Light’s leg, one hand pressed firmly into his back, keeping him flat, the other binding his wrists. The dampness spreads across Light’s suit jacket. Dark blotch… Liquid bubbles up through the fabric’s fibers and the muscles inside Matsuda’s skin flinch. Fuck- he’s hurting him, he’s making him bleed. But he doesn’t falter. He holds strong. “Stop struggling,” he says through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut. Stop hurting yourself.

When he opens his lids, Light’s grown weaker. Given the chance, he brings the cuffs to his wrists and clicks them closed. 

Just like that.

He’s detained more criminals than he can count during his time with the NPA, completed this ritual enough times for it to become purely procedural, but Light’s the last person on earth he expected to see in cuffs and the visual is so bizarre he nearly laughs out loud. It’s not a laugh that will leave him though, it’ll be a pathetic sound verging on a sob. He refuses to cry audibly, so it comes out a strange croak, like his breath’s trying to escape his lungs. 

“You imploded your whole life,” he whispers. “And for what…? When we put you away, what are we supposed to tell your mother and- and Sayu-chan? You’ll leave them behind and, god, they love you, they really love you. How can you, so selfishly—” Matsuda registers the wetness streaked down his face. The salt of dried tears. Guess he’s been crying after all, but he can’t comprehend it when he’s not in his own body, not really. 

Light yells to the ground, “You’ll leave them living in a rotten world! Earnest people like them, like my father, they deserve to live in a safe world, a just world. You’re the selfish ones, ripping that from them! Don’t you understand?! His death… His death will be wasted!” 

“That’s… how you see it? Light-kun, you’re the one– You.” What keeps Matsuda from completely detaching is the heat igniting at the back of his neck. Like flint striking steel, the fury keeps sparking him back to life. And it builds and builds. He recalls the Chief, aged far beyond his years, and there was nothing Matsuda could do but watch him slowly erode under the weight of the case as the years rolled by, hair streaked gray from stress. Stress caused by– His death, all of it caused by…

“The Chief risked everything to confront evil. Devoted his entire life to it.” Matsuda’s mouth and throat burn itchy and acidic and raw, words pulled from a hot pit in his stomach. “Like hell this is what he would have wanted! You’re delusional if that’s what you think. If he were alive, he’d never forgive you. He wouldn’t even recognize you.” 

Light scowls up at him, eyes narrowed in pure detestment. 

“You lost everything, Light-kun. Everything. And I feel sorry for you.” 

That pity draws a rise from Light like no other, limbs tensing in fierce resistance under his hold. 

Light’s seething dissolves to a dark, disgusted laugh. “You know… that’s where you really shine…” He forces each word out between ragged intakes of air. “Inserting yourself where you don’t belong. Because you—” He hacks, line of red running down his chin. “You don’t belong anywhere, do you?” He then catches his breath, regaining his composure to stick a pin in and pierce it deep, pressed cruelly and methodically where it aches most. “Too idiotic or cowardly to pick a side. You ruined your chance, because that’s what you're destined to do. That’s who you are.” 

Shut up. “You’re a murderer. Murderer who thinks he’s a god.”

“Don’t make me laugh, you accepted Kira as justice long ago. What– you have a problem with the judgments now?” 

“Shut up! Shut your mouth.” Pangs of guilt fill his chest. Burn beneath his sternum, branding him. Disgusting. He’s disgusting. He wants to die.

“Lie to yourself all you want, but if you think… think you’re blameless, you’re dead wrong. You more than willingly played along. ‘Delusional’…? That’s—” A sneer stretches his lips. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Matsuda digs his fingers into the fabric, into the skin and muscles beneath him, hoping his nails pierce and leave a mark, an action that only makes Light’s smile widen.

“I- I don’t get it. I don’t.” He wants to know, has to know. Light owes it to him. “Why did you, why, with me…?” If it were for approval alone, Light could have picked anyone. What were all those nights, what the hell did they mean? When Light wrapped him up in his arms and his bed became a small world built for two. And even the silences Matsuda always hated where intrusive thoughts crept in, like a magic spell, transformed into sighs of relief. Light held him close like he was someone precious, someone worth loving— Why? 

“Why you?” Light laughs, and it’s a strangely gentle sound. “You want to know?” He manages to keep his voice eerily level, as though he hadn’t been repeatedly shot. As though he wants his next words to seep into Matsuda and imprint a permanent stain. 

“I did it because it was easy, Matsuda.”

…

“All it takes for you to open your legs is a little meaningless kindness. Isn’t that right?” 

Light cranes his neck over his shoulder, bringing them face-to-face. 

“And you loved it.”

He’ll strangle him. 

He’ll wrap his hands around his neck and make him choke back those words he just spoke. He’ll kill him, but- but he can’t because, —“You loved it.”—  Because. 

He doesn’t strangle Light. No, his body goes heavy and numb. And Light goes still in turn, finally relenting, finally given up. Matsuda hauls Light to his feet with pained effort, the latter leaning his full weight on him, probably lost far too much blood to stand on his own. 

They step into the shadows stretched long across the floor, blue columns cast by tanks and pillars framed in an orange glow. And it dawns on Matsuda, as obvious as it may be, that he’s arrested Light. 

Light stands before him in handcuffs.

He doubts there will be a trial, in fact, he’s certain there won’t be. Light will likely be locked somewhere far away from all human interaction. Kira’s existence will die with Light’s incarceration and it’ll be as though the “Kira the Savior” never existed at all.

It’s over. 

Waking up to his surroundings, Matsuda finds Mogi hovering nearby. He won't meet his eye, and Matsuda can't blame him, but he also doesn’t seem to hold any immediate ire towards him. Ide still lies half-collapsed, half-conscious in the same spot on the floor. Aizawa stoops over him, not looking much better. They need to leave this place. Desperately. 

There’s a soft rattle. 
Minuscule movement. It catches the shine of the cuffs. 
Light fidgets with his wrist. If he thinks he can maneuver out of the cuffs he’s seriously lost it.  
But then Matsuda notices the wristwatch. A silver disc slides out from the face. It’s been opened. 
Opened?
Light’s slick red fingers strain for a small scrap of paper inside, working fast—

“Don’t move!!” Matsuda takes hold of his arm in a vice grip, fingers digging into the tendons and twisting. Light yelps. He hurts Light. He wants to hurt him. His hold shifts down to the watch and he yanks so hard, it rips from Light’s wrist. The metal band’s pins and links break and scatter to the ground. Disk snapped off and glass face cracked. It must have stung, must have marked Light’s skin, but all Matsuda can do is violently shake him. Scream at him.

“What’s wrong with you?!” Frustrated tears cloud his eyes, voice wavering.

So badly. You really want us dead that badly?  

“What’s wrong with you…” Matsuda repeats, wheezing. His head hangs. And then he’s pleading to no one in particular, just the blue, winter shadows. “God, please. Enough, already.” 

Caged with no more cards up his sleeve, Light cries out, “NO!” He becomes someone foreign. Sounds pour from his throat that don’t make sense, unlike anything Matsuda’s ever heard. “NO! Someone! Someone…” 

A stark white face emerges from the dark. It appears seemingly out of thin air, igniting fresh fear Matsuda thought he’d been numbed to after this lived hell. Even so, the shock of it causes his body to jolt, his hold to loosen.

Light hurls himself forward and rips out of his grasp. 

He collides with the ground, scrambling forward despite the painful impact. The cracked concrete scrapes and bruises, his hands still bound behind his back, but it doesn’t matter because he crawls with one destination in mind— their audience of one who rises from the shadows now that their show's finally reached its end. 

The Task Force collectively tense. They can only stand idly by, powerless as Light’s next move becomes clear. 

“Ryuk!” Light cries out with an unnerving amount of glee. “Yeah, Ryuk– You… you should write his name! Write it in your notebook!”

Ryuk stalks forward to loom over him. “Should I?” His voice rumbles, cloaked in something far beyond their understanding, something ancient; an inhuman quality that cuts through their sweat and fear. Pitch black tower of death. 

“You’ve got to kill him! Write that idiot’s name! All– all of their names… Write them down!” he yells, falling over one of Ryuk’s spindly legs.

“Light.” 

Ryuk remains an unreadable presence, eyes glowing in the dark. “I was looking forward to seeing how you’d get yourself out of this one. It was all lined up in your favor, and I really thought you’d pull it off, but… Well, if your last resort is my help, then…” He indulges in a deep, throaty cackle. 

“It’s true, Light, I did enjoy what you prepared just as you said I would.” Ryuk hunches and lowers his face to speak to him directly. “But I don’t wanna watch you rot in prison.” He then sweeps a long arm across the floor and plucks up the notebook.

Light slips from Ryuk and falls limp to his knees, gaping up at the shinigami. “Ryuk, what are you—”

“I told you when we first met—” Ryuk opens the bloodied cover. “—that I’d be the one to write your name in my Death Note when it’s your time to die.” He picks through the pages, seeking a specific one. Straightens when he finds it and examines it with a pleased gleam in his bulbous eyes. “But the job’s half-done here. Mm, it’d be a shame to leave it unfinished. Yeah, this’ll do just as well.” 

Wide lips curl over razor sharp teeth. “Thanks for a thrilling final performance.” The statement drips with foreboding implications, and yet there’s a very real thread of sincerity intertwined in it. 

“‘Final’…? No. No, this isn’t the end.” When Ryuk doesn’t grant Light a response, he attempts to grovel on his lanky form once more, only to phase clean through. “Damnit! Ryuk, Did you hear me?! I said this isn’t the end!”

Ryuk only gazes down upon him as though observing an unruly pet, unanswering.

He then shifts, feathered shoulders twisting to address Matsuda. His red pupils laser into him. “You know, I didn’t think you had it in you. Killing that Mikami Teru guy. Burning a shinigami’s notebook. And look here…” He scans the opened page then traces a claw across it. “The first character of Light’s name. You almost did my job for me.” Those red pin lights in the dark meet his again. “Turns out you were his fatal flaw. So what do you say I let your hand help complete a shinigami’s duty?”

“No, don’t kill—” Matsuda can’t stop himself from objecting. He swallows his sentence as guilt overwhelms him. Is he really saying that now? After everything…? He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know what he’s holding onto. 

“Hmm? ‘No’? I’m only finishing what you started. Heh. You humans really do form strange attachments; feeling sympathy for those who wish you dead. I don’t really get it, but Light said human nature is like this.” He chuckles. “How interesting.”

Light’s wrists strain in the cuffs, rubbed raw. His eyes search the room as he racks his brain for a solution. “Ryuk, you can’t! I’m telling you, you can’t– If you end it here, you won’t get to see the world rewrite itself. Don’t you understand? You’ll never see a human achieve anything like this ever again and it’ll be endless, meaningless boredom for eternity! If you get it, write the others’ names instead! Write them down!!” he pleads at Ryuk’s feet.

“Oh, Light. You’re not thinking clearly, are you? No, this isn’t like you at all.” Ryuk takes on a gentle, cloying tone that’s somehow far scarier than his usual rasp. “You misunderstand. Sure, it’s been fun, but your existence is a speck of sand in a shinigami’s hourglass. You’re not the first exceptional human and you won’t be the last. Your life holds no value to me.” Then spoken calm and final, “You’ll die here.” 

For once, Light can’t find the words. The cogs in his head have hit an immovable object and jammed. He can’t logic or charm his way out of this.

Ryuk places pen to paper. Matsuda’s body falls forward and he catches himself on his bad leg, electric pain drilling straight to the nerve, still, he draws himself forward, reaching out to stop—

A sudden force tugs him backwards. Mogi balls the collar of his jacket in his fist and holds him back. Matsuda struggles against it to no avail. He reaches out weakly, grasping at air, at nothing. Ryuk writes and all he can do is witness it.

It’s only a few flicks of Ryuk’s pen. Only a second.

When he’s finished, Ryuk presents the notebook to them. The page displays Matsuda’s scrawl of red finished by Ryuk’s own black, compact script. The image traces itself into his eyes.

“This is Yagami Light’s end.”

Goodbye. Matsuda’s not ready to say goodbye, but Ryuk is a god of death and they’re small and inconsequential and so very weak. 

The name’s been written. It’s final.

It’s done.

“Matsuda…! Matsuda!”

Light’s calling out to him. No. Why- why is he calling for him? He feels sick, he’s going to be sick—

Mogi digs into his shoulder with an iron grip as he pulls uselessly forward. 

“Matsuda! Tell him to stop! Tell him… Don’t wanna die, don’t want to…” Light sounds like a child, desperate and helpless. All alone. “Please, I’m scared…!”

Ice water pours through Matsuda’s veins and he no longer struggles. His body goes limp and his mouth cracks open to let out some sound he can’t hear. He can’t look, eyes clenched shut. Can’t watch. Watching will make it real, make it a choice he’s made, and so he’ll just hang from Mogi’s hold until he loses consciousness and wakes up in the hospital. Or until he dies from blood loss and ends up nowhere at all. That would be better. 

Mogi’s voice booms in his ear and he’s pulled upright, preventing complete dissociation and, in turn, dissolving his hopeful, half-formed plan. He’s telling him they have to leave —Matsuda thinks— and he’s repeating the words louder, panicked. 

Mogi positions him to turn around and walk, and Matsuda’s forced to follow, but Light’s pleading continues. 

It goes on,

and on,

and on,

and stops.

And then a dark curtain falls over Matsuda’s eyes and he really does pass out.

Chapter Text

_____________________

It’s a heavy black, all-encompassing, and it envelops him under a velvet cloak— a disappearing trick, and he lets it.

It would be nice, he thinks, if the trick played out. He wouldn’t mind being submerged in endless dark and escaping all this. Escaping himself. 

That desire is promptly dashed when a long, diagonal ray of light bleeds across his closed lids. Shines red through his veins accompanied by ghostly flecks. 

The road rumbles below. Huh. He’s in a car.

Matsuda pries his eyes open. Squints, then blinks hard, though it does little to unblur his vision. He registers his body sprawled across the back seat of someone’s car— Aizawa. Right, it was Aizawa’s car they all climbed into this morning. The smell of leather upholstery fills the cramped space, along with copper, sweat, heat. 

Mogi’s head peeks over the top of the driver’s seat. Where are they going? Back to HQ? Are they allowed to? The SPK traveled all the way to Japan for this meeting. He can’t imagine Near being too thrilled if they ditch, tempting as the idea sounds.

Was it called off?

No, can’t be. This is probably just a detour. He’ll ask Mogi. 

He intends to ask, but his head’s awash with static and fatigue sinks down on his chest like a heavy stone. The words elude him completely when his vision dips back to black. And he doesn’t hate it. It’s safe and calm and easy. 

If it weren’t for… Much to his frustration, a veil of sun insists on ruining his rest. It dissipates only to phase back in, again and again, disrupting the lull of sleep. 

He wishes someone would cover it up and let him fall down this hole. He’s almost there, almost out.

–––!

An alarm sounds off above him and he snaps awake. The disorientation spins his world, nerves vibrating, head pulsing. When the noise subsides, he realizes the alarm wasn’t an alarm at all, but a fraught shout. 

…Mogi? The guy’s usually so quiet. Why is he hell-bent on keeping him from drifting off? There's nothing wrong with wanting a little shut-eye before they get there. He doesn’t understand why they’re taking this meeting so seriously. Near isn’t their boss.

His scalp tickles. Matsuda lifts his chin to find the cause, hair brushing against another person slumped beside him. They’re very still. Looks like Ide, it is Ide, but he’s upside down. Or, no, his view is tilted; Ide’s the one right side up while he’s lounged flat on his back, taking up most of the seat. It’s a miracle the others haven’t told him off yet.

In any case, he’s glad Ide’s here. He’s always glad when Ide’s here.

What time…?  A strip of light across the car’s headliner leads his gaze out the window to orange skies and clouds, edges singed pink. Already sunset— strange. And no sign of Ryuk’s silhouette following their car. Very strange. Telephone poles shoot by. Mogi’s driving way too fast, but Matsuda can’t muster the energy to tell him so.

His leg is numb and wet. Fabric isn’t the right texture, coated in something thick like mud warmed in the sun.

The simple action of sitting up and correcting his posture becomes an impossible task he has no choice but to concede, invisible weights shackling his limbs to the seat. His body may be a paperweight, but his head’s light as air, and he floats in that pleasant stupor for what must be hours. 

There’s talking. Words spiked in distress. Aizawa’s voice… Yeah, it’s Aizawa. Sitting up at the front with Mogi. Wait. 

Wait, where’s Light? Why isn’t he here? Light is—

… 

Light is…

No. 

No, no, no. 

How– seconds ago, he’d been blissfully unaware, and now– now the hailstorm of gunfire won’t vacate his brain. It won’t leave. He remembers with vivid clarity the blood bubbling up and streaming down Ide’s chest. Red. Hot. His fault. His hands—

He attempts to raise the arm he couldn’t before with newfound cognizance, terrified of what he’ll find, but he has to look. Simply hovering it above the seat spurs a flood of nausea, tremors running up and down his forearm. He casts his gaze down without moving his head, unable to do much else, and– it’s everywhere. Plastered across his clothes. Dried and cracked on his palm. Oxidized and coagulated and now he breathes it, tastes it. His body’s been dropped off a skyscraper. Heart in his throat. 

The instinct to clutch his head and ease the vertigo, to cradle himself, rises fast and desperate within him, but he’s a collection of flesh and bone on the back seat, unable to work his weakened muscles. 

He’s long past running on empty. Perhaps he’s already dead— that might be a mercy. 

It hasn’t been hours as his half-conscious brain believed, no, probably more like minutes. Help’s in closer reach than it has been all day and slipping back to sleep is a sure bet towards death. Lost far too much blood. He should fight it, that’s what you’re supposed to do, that’s what people who have a life worth living should do. 

Matsuda allows dark edges to creep in and replace orange sky. 

Because he’d rather this be a dream. And if it’s not, he’d rather not wake back up.

Coward. There is no magic trick to undo what’s been done. There is no easy out.

___________

February 11, 2010 

They’re going to burn it.

That’s what was decided. 

And so they trickled in one by one that afternoon, gathered at headquarters once more, a room Matsuda wasn’t sure he’d ever set foot in again. They paid the rent this month, but that was the last time. They’re breaking the lease. It makes sense. They don’t need the space anymore, only long enough to pack the investigation up. It’s nearly done now anyway, the apartment all bare bones; monitors removed from the walls and piles of cords and other tech equipment cluttering the floor. Their case files and documents fill a tower of binders, prepared to be archived. Part of him thought it might be a relief since the memory of HQ only ever seems to dredge up feelings of pain and fear, and yet its dismantlement bores a cavity in his chest. It’s another goodbye Matsuda can’t quite grasp. 

Today marks a week since the last of them were discharged from the hospital, and it seemed just as good a day as any. 

Aizawa is keen to destroy the notebook. 

Aizawa… can barely stand to look at him, much less be in the same room as him. And Matsuda understands; he can hardly stand to exist with himself, either. That’s why he lives in a fog outside his body, going through the motions on autopilot.

It’s just a motor function, just a number, as he punches his code into the safe holding the Death Note. 

The others do the same. Mogi’s last. When the door unlocks, he removes the notebook and thumbs through the pages with what’s perhaps a morbid curiosity, like he’s compelled, and Matsuda can’t help but draw closer. They’ve analyzed it front to back and Matsuda knows it better than he ever desired to. Studied the rows of names written in neat black ink and drove themselves in circles, and for what exactly— and then Mogi reaches that page. 

Streaks of dried blood stare Matsuda in the face, his own desperate scrawl spelling out half the characters in Light’s name completed by Ryuk’s final judgment. In the end, it was a mere few sets of legs standing amongst an array of corpses. Empty. Freezing. Ears ringing in a concrete casket.

His writing. His writing was used to kill—

Matsuda stares through the script on the page. It drills straight to the bone and nestles within him, somewhere deep down he can’t claw out. Permanently embedded. 

Mogi takes notice of his state with a jolt and abruptly shuts the notebook. “Ah-”

He then speaks to him gently, like he’ll break —“No need to look at that.”— and shows him an awkward half-smile.

“Hey.” The word booms from the opposite side of the room. Aizawa addresses Mogi with a stern warning, “Don’t let him get too close to it.” 

“I–” Matsuda’s face heats. His hands tremble. What’s that supposed to mean? A knee-jerk defensiveness rises in him, then a sharp pang. He… he’s not going to fucking murder them. He’s not a danger. He’s not. He wants to object.

He wants to, but he can’t exactly blame Aizawa. The last time he held that notebook in his hands, he declared he’d use it to write all their names. (He wasn’t going to. It was an act. And he did the right thing, didn’t he? He– It was an act. Sure, he’d considered it, but—) 

Some part of him considered it. 

All at once, he wants the floor to swallow him up. He wants his lungs to fill with water. Sink and drown. But he’s alive, taking up space, and all he can do is stand there and take the blow of Aizawa’s words. 

A figure comes into his periphery; warm presence stood close beside him. If Ide’s aim is comfort, he really doesn’t want it. Matsuda’s eyes fall on the sling covering Ide’s arm. 

Mogi got out mostly unscathed, scraped up and battered and likely changed for life, but no fatal wounds. Matsuda considers his own injuries negligible. He was kept two nights at the hospital and then sent home on crutches he doesn’t even need anymore. If the bullet had pierced his femoral artery, he would have bled out in minutes, but he managed to avoid that fate by a number of centimeters. It was lucky. He was lucky.

He’d gone into shock and received a blood transfusion, and even now, standing perfectly still, his leg aches deeply, but he… All things considered, he got off far better than he deserves.

Aizawa and Ide required a longer stay. Required surgeries. 

The gunshot wound to Aizawa’s abdomen was treated without issue at first, only to become infected and damage his intestines. Sepsis nearly led to organ failure. The same day Matsuda was discharged, Aizawa’s wife and daughter cried in the hospital lobby awaiting the results of his surgery.

Ide arrived at the hospital drowning in his own blood. The punctured lung itself wasn’t lethal, but the bullet that tore through the blood vessels in his chest cavity was. The internal bleeding was so severe and treatment so delayed, he went into cardiac arrest, only surviving due to suffering the attack in the ER. They drained the collapsed lung, suctioned out air and fluid, gave him two blood transfusions. If his heart stopped beating before then, at the warehouse or even on the car ride over, Ide would have been pronounced dead on arrival.

I’m so sorry. Matsuda’s gaze continues to linger over Ide’s cast. 

One of the bullets shattered his humerus. That required a second surgery to repair the bone. Ide now has pins and screws and a metal plate in his shoulder. Ide may very well never use that arm the same again if the physical therapy doesn’t work. Ide needs to stop and catch his breath just walking to and from the train station. Ide hides every wince and twinge of pain— and Matsuda sees it all. 

And he’s sorry. It’s not just the sling. Matsuda knows the extent of his bandages, covering half his body, wrapped around his torso. He’s so fucking sorry…

The room fades back to fog. Matsuda keeps his hand low at his side and runs his thumb over his fingers. Every pad is adorned with small tears, marks he doesn’t recall making. Even now, as his thumbnail hooks into raw skin and it sings in pain, he does so mindlessly. He only stops if he draws blood; it’s inconvenient more than anything. Might get on his sleeve. Become noticeable.

A metal bin filled with water is placed at the center of the floor. After the smoke detectors are disabled and windows cracked, the four of them come to form a half circle around it. Aizawa steps forward with the Death Note in hand, tucking the scrap from Light’s wristwatch within the pages. The character Light attempted to write is an illegible red smear, though it doesn’t take a genius to deduct whose name it would have been. Matsuda digs his nail into his cuticle.

There’s a short discussion. It doesn’t include him.
“…If it’s destroyed… Won’t the shinigami want it back?”
“He hasn’t shown himself since the 28th. If he hasn’t come back by now, I don’t think he ever will.”
“Ryuk was tied to Light-kun. Now that he’s gone… It’s over. It’s over, it must be.”

A lighter flicks on. Flint scrapes steel, gas catches flame.

When the corner of the page first ignites, Matsuda’s body jerks forward out of the fog, out of his control. Yes, they’d discussed what to do with the notebook and come to this agreement, and he’d said nothing as he had no right, and yes, he knew this would happen today, but the reality of it hits him like a bucket of ice over his head. If the notebook burns away and disappears from this world, the case is finished. He knows it’s already over, but all traces of it will truly, irrevocably be gone. This last piece of Light will go up in smoke, and then—

Ide clamps a hand down on his shoulder and holds him still. Gives him a sympathetic but firm look. Matsuda shakes his head weakly, but it’s non-negotiable, so he resigns himself to watching the black cover shrivel and disintegrate in the flames then fall to ash on the water’s surface. The smell of burnt paper dizzies him even as it wafts out the window, but it’s not the smoke that sends him reeling, it’s the loss.

Aizawa reacts to his obvious distress with a scoff, unwilling to look Matsuda in the eye and surely holding back harsh words.

The fire eats through the entirety of the notebook within less than a minute. It’s quick, uncaring, final. Such a simple act and it’s wiped Kira’s power from this world. Cleaned the slate. 

Headquarters… it’s the same ceiling, walls, and floor, same space, but it isn’t. Not even close. No, he doesn’t want to be here. Matsuda covers his face and sighs shakily into his hand, unable to suppress it. He doesn’t care how he looks. Light’s not here and he should be here. He should be standing right there, right next to them. Like always.

That’s all it takes for Aizawa’s temper to boil over. “What? Is he really– It’s like he’s mourning it.” A laugh of disbelief bursts from his lips like a cork, allowing a stream of pent–up hatred to follow. “It really pains him that goddamn much? This– this thing that tore apart our lives? Unbelievable.”

Matsuda finds he doesn’t mind being yelled at so much.

Mogi takes a hesitant step forward, then proceeds to speak up much to the surprise of everyone. “This doesn’t need to happen right now.”

Aizawa scans him over, perplexed. “Then when the hell is it supposed to happen??”

“It won’t help anything.”

“No. No, you know what? Screw this. I’m sick of avoiding it,” Aizawa fires back. He then whips around to face Matsuda, directly acknowledging him for the first time since that day at the warehouse. “Light essentially confessed he was Kira to you and you didn’t think to tell anyone? No, worse than that, you didn’t want to for god knows what reason. Because… what? You were involved with each other? Of all the idiotic things you’ve– This is—”

Ide shoots him a look. “Aizawa. Drop it.”

“Complicit,” he spits. “That’s what you were. It didn’t matter what happened to us, did it? You knew he’d keep you alive, so to hell with the rest of us, right?!” 

“Aizawa!”

“No, you’re wrong,” breaks from Matsuda’s throat. He’s scrambling, desperate. “You’re wrong. I didn’t think he’d kill any of us, god, I never wanted that, never, never. I didn’t think he’d actually go through with i–t…” Then the words die on his tongue.

“Light told you what would happen to us. And you… just hoped and prayed he wasn’t serious?”

“…”

“Matsuda…” Aizawa gives a bitter laugh. 

Matsuda speaks to the floor, voice just above a whisper, “I begged him not to. I- I didn’t want…” 

“Right. Okay, sure; let’s say him killing us is where you draw the line. But you can look past the mass murder. Lowly criminals are free for the slaughter, that’s perfectly fine in your eyes. That’s fine and doesn’t go against everything we’ve ever worked for…!”

“HEY!” Ide yells. “That’s enough!”

Matsuda swings his gaze up. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Ide’s voice reach that decibel before. It’s not like the scoldings he’s been on the receiving end of countless times, no, it’s a raw sound; a warning that borders on a threat, and it’s directed at Aizawa of all people.

Aizawa clenches his jaw, squaring up with another retort. Only, it doesn't come. He looks off sharply to the side and relents with a huff.

What follows is a silence so thick it churns Matsuda’s gut. They steep in it, stood across one another on beige carpet, surrounded by symbols of their labor and sacrifice that no longer serve a purpose. No more L. No more N. No more anything. 

Mogi looks as though he’d like nothing more than to evaporate into thin air, and Matsuda wishes such a feat were possible so he could join him.

Ide, with visible effort, regains his composure and cuts through the tension with as level a tone as he can manage. “The thing about Light-kun— it’s unfair, you know. He was two-faced and damn good at it. He… got into his head.” He gestures towards Matsuda. “And he’s not the only one. He tricked all of us for years.” 

Ide continues, turning to Aizawa, “You put your faith in Near, we all did, stepping into the warehouse that day, and he couldn’t do it. Near couldn’t win. It’s not Matsuda’s fault Light-kun bested him. Look, Matsuda tried. He tried. I get it, you need someone to blame, but he’s not the one you should be angry at.”

Matsuda attempts to swallow, but chokes on the lump in his throat. His palms grow clammy and the blood drains from his face. Because, no. What is Ide talking about? His efforts weren’t enough, they were a far cry from enough. He… he should have told someone. He should have done so much. He wants to grab Ide and shake him and demand he quit trying to absolve him of this. What’s done is done. He made his choices and they were wrong every step of the way. 

There’s no easy out, no easy out. He should be held responsible because he screwed it all up— monumentally worse than he usually does. 

Light was right. “That’s what you’re destined to do. That’s who you are.”

He wants to scream, but he can’t bring himself to make a sound. And Ide’s still talking.

“When we started suspecting Light-kun, it’s not like it was a surprise he’d try and kill us. And so what if Matsuda knew? We all understood the possibility—” 

“It’s not about that and you know it!” Aizawa snaps. “We knew Light was a snake, so we didn’t turn a blind eye and follow him to bed!” 

Matsuda flinches. 

“That’s the damn difference,” he grits out. 

After a beat, Aizawa's shoulders slump, having exhausted all his rage, and he wearily turns to Matsuda. “We… we were supposed to commit ourselves to justice. To this case. No matter what. No matter how many people turned against us.” 

Their eyes meet and Matsuda’s breath stops, confronted with something fractured, something pained. The anger he could take, in fact he welcomed it, but this…

“We were supposed to do it together,” Aizawa utters, his voice breaking. The hurt strung taut over his features stabs Matsuda in the chest.

The four of them leave HQ that day knowing they’ll never come back. There’s nothing left for them in that cold, gutted room. The remains are pointless conspiracies about Kira’s disappearance and television programs clamoring to become the shiny new thing to believe in after Today’s Miss Takada stopped airing.

The door clicks shut.

Aizawa hangs his head. He speaks quietly, defeat coating his words. “Did our lives really mean so little to you…?” Then, even quieter, “I don’t know who the fuck you are.”

Neither does he.

___________

The chime of the train rings to the beat of shoes tapping across asphalt, along with Ide’s small talk, which gets lost in the bustle.

Ide does this lately. They exit with the crowd onto the platform and he makes conversation like nothing is wrong. He smiles. Matsuda could probably hear him if he strained, but the chatter seeps through the cracks when he’s watching Ide’s labored breath; the short, erratic puffs that catch the winter air and the way his chest heaves, noticeable even under the thick layers of his coat. Ide continues to talk like it’s easy, like his lung isn’t still healing and struggling to expand. Like he didn’t almost die on an operating table. He glances over his shoulder and meets Matsuda’s concern with kind eyes. 

Ide’s trying to show him he’s okay. And it’s painfully obvious every time.

Matsuda wants to suggest they call a taxi —knowing full well Ide will wave the idea off— but by the time he’s fostered a spark of motivation within the brain fog, they’ve long since left the station and walked the short distance to Ide’s apartment complex. 

Matsuda buries his fists in his pockets and focuses the weight of his guilt into a tight grip. Averts his gaze down to the frost-covered sidewalk and the long shadow his figure casts. 

His thoughts stew hot and black like tar, but before they can simmer long, there’s a caress to his shoulder. Gentle brush of fingers. It’s not fair how instantaneously that works, how Ide can break him from a well-deserved spiral with a single touch. Nevertheless, it works, and Ide’s able to usher him up the stairs and into his unit. 

Ide called his cell the day he was finally discharged and asked him over. Matsuda agreed, only expecting to visit Ide’s place for a few hours. But then he just… never left. He found he didn’t want to leave. Found the idea of returning to his own apartment and falling back into routine nausea-inducing. It would mean moving on. 

He’d tried. Well— not accepting their new reality, but he’d certainly tried denying it. The day he got out of the hospital was so surreal he could almost pretend January 28th never happened. He could sit quietly at home and watch stupid game shows on TV, was even able to keep down a small bowl of rice and miso soup. And then the next morning he woke after passing out on the couch the night before and discovered he couldn’t move. The reverberation of gunfire rang impossibly loud in his ears. It came in waves, lessening only to crescendo whenever he attempted to get up. He lay there paralyzed until the room grew dark and his eyes could no longer make out the bright green numbers on his digital clock, blurred with exhaustion.

The day after that, Light’s final moments tunneled through Matsuda’s head like a freight train, “Matsuda…! Matsuda! Please, I’m scared…!” and he hyperventilated until he retched, then retched until he cried.

…It’s been a week and Ide hasn’t told him to leave. Not yet, anyway. So he stays.

A warm glow trickles in when the kitchen light flicks on. Winter days really are shorter. He didn’t notice how dark it’d gotten; the sun nearly disappeared behind the horizon. His shoes join Ide’s in the entryway. Without his there, it’d only be the single pair of dress shoes Ide wears to work, no others. Ide lives simply— is what he’s come to observe. 

His gaze sweeps over the apartment now illuminated. It’s small yet tidy, everything put in its proper place. The only items of excess are books tucked between furniture where the shelves can’t fit them and several sets of glassware atop a liquor cabinet. 

He pictures Ide returning home from work and following his rituals day to day without much shift. Greeting “I’m home” to no one but himself. It’s a space curated for one, and clearly has been for a long time. A similar brand of loneliness lingers in Matsuda’s own apartment, but the state of it couldn’t be more different. Where Ide maintains order, he allows disaster; forgotten papers and mail and trash he won’t throw away strewn across the floor. His way of filling the gap. 

Ide opened his space to him and he’s taken horrible advantage of it. Drank Ide’s tea and used his sofa as a bed throughout the week, ate from his table. He leeched off Light's kindness the same way. Though, despite all the nights he spent there, Light’s apartment never felt quite lived-in the way Ide’s place does. It was furnished like a display right out of a catalog and served its purpose and nothing more.

With Ide, it’s sort of a home.

Matsuda’s feet carry him to an armchair in the corner he’s become very familiar with. He moves on stiff limbs, trying not to agitate the tension in his thigh. He vaguely recalls the extent to which it bled, the burning pain. Oddly, in the aftermath, he was less fazed by the bullet wound that nearly killed him and more startled by the number of bruises he curated. The concrete floor did a number on his body. He was plastered in them. Blue and purple blotted his knees, shins, elbows. 

Those surface wounds have faded, but his bones still ache, something deep within them separate from the injuries he sustained. He finds simple things like buttoning his shirt or drinking water or taking a deep breath hurts most days, and he can’t tell if it’s physical or all in his head, but he’s hollower, somehow.

Matsuda jumps when a clink sounds out across the room, breaking him from his thoughts. He looks up to find Ide holding a crystal bottle by the neck, its contents swimming with some type of hard liquor he can’t identify. The fact Ide owns a liquor cabinet strikes Matsuda as mature, the type of thing he’d expect hardened detectives in old movies to keep in their offices. Ide has seniority over him, but they’re essentially the same rank, having worked the same high profile case for years, and yet, all at once, he feels like the naive, greenhorn kid on the force all over again. 

Ide fumbles one-handed with the bottle trying to pour himself a drink. Matsuda’s heart sinks.

“I can help—”

As expected, Ide won’t let him. He shakes his head. “I can do at least this much.” Once he manages the stopper off, he pauses to ask, “Want me to pour you one? Do you like it on the rocks?”

Matsuda nods, not sure what he likes. 

Ide takes a minute to prepare both their drinks, then comes to sit on the sofa across from Matsuda. Slides his glass across the table. Staring at it won’t make it any less intimidating, so Matsuda raises it to his lips and tests a sip.

“It’s… strong.” He hates the taste and it must clearly show on his face because Ide shoots him a knowing look.

“Well, it’s whiskey,” Ide replies, matter-of-fact. “What do you usually drink?” 

“Um, usually Chuhai I guess?” Their alcohol content is always low enough for him to handle. And he can get them for cheap at Lawson. And they actually taste good, unlike this. 

“Of course you do.”

They drink in easy silence, the glass resting like a cool weight in Matsuda’s fingers and the liquid inside quickly vanishing. Before he knows it, it’s more than halfway finished, rich color diluted by melted ice.

Ide eyes his glass. “Ah, just… go slow. You’re a lightweight, aren’t you? No, I know you are.” 

But he doesn’t want to take it slow. He wants to down this abrasive drink that burns his throat and forget the blood wet and hot on his hands and streaked across the pages of a notebook that’s currently a few charred scraps sitting in an evidence locker never to be touched again. Oh— he suddenly feels the urge to laugh out loud. But Ide will look at him like he’s crazy if he does that unprompted. 

“Then don’t offer it to me in the first place.” Matsuda takes another pointed sip.

Ide watches, unimpressed. “I wanted a drink tonight and figured you could use one too. That doesn’t mean get drunk off your ass in my apartment, Matsuda.” 

He twirls the ice in his glass. “That doesn’t sound half bad, though.” 

“Are you going to make me regret giving you booze— you know what, I already regret it.” 

Matsuda actually does let out a chuckle at that. And Ide just huffs as he rises from the sofa, but can’t seem to help letting a relieved smile slip. 

He’s worried about me. The thought hits him with a flash of shame and guilt, then a creeping irritation. Of course he’s not okay— nothing is. But it’s not Ide’s job to keep him from doing anything stupid, nor should he be burdened with worrying himself over it. No, he deserves this sick feeling piercing his gut that hasn’t let up since he watched Light’s life drain away. 

Don’t be so nice to me. “I should probably go back home soon, huh? I’ve been free-loading off you long enough,” Matsuda blurts out.

Ide shrugs and returns to his seat, bottle in hand, unbothered as can be. “Stay as long as you want.”

Please don’t be so nice to me.

Part of him wants Ide to get it over with; rip the band-aid off and tell him I told you so, because he was correct. Light was indeed willing to kill them all, and Ide had tried to warn him he was no special exception. …And foolish him was too desperate and deluded to see the truth.

Matsuda throws the rest of his drink back, a decision he immediately regrets when it scalds his throat. “Don’t you have any beer at least, or something?” he rasps.

“All out. Want me to top you off or not?” Ide gestures, cocking the bottle. 

There would need to be some liquid remaining to ‘top him off’. Matsuda looks down at his empty glass and raises a brow.

“You know what I mean,” Ide says.

It’s bitter and Matsuda finds himself recoiling with every drop that hits his tongue, but maybe he’d also like to drown in it. He holds out his glass. Whiskey pours in, its amber color far more pleasant in appearance than taste. The aroma alone is enough to make his head swim. “Hm. You said you don’t want me drunk, but you’re refilling my glass.” 

Ide sighs. “I know, and that’s probably very stupid of me, but I think we can afford to act a little stupid right now, given… everything.” Matsuda can’t argue with that. “Today was…”

“Today was.”

Ide exhales a dry laugh. “Yeah.” He takes a slow sip and seems to contemplate his next words. “Hey, you know. Don’t take what Aizawa said to heart. He’s just– you know how he is. Telling Light’s mother the news from a hospital bed, and on the phone no less, he- from what he told me, it was hell. He’s not coping and he’s taking it out on you, which isn't fair, but…” He clears his throat. “Yeah. He’s not holding up well.”

Three days after that day, Aizawa informed Light’s family, or what was left of it, of his death. When Light’s mother and sister hadn’t heard from him, they figured it was because he was drowning in work as per usual. Even so, they deserved to know sooner. 

Those days were spent coming to a decision about the version of Light’s fate they were going to let the public believe. Had to craft a lie.

They’d discussed how to go about it in Aizawa’s room at the hospital, as he was still confined to his bed. Sat in stiff plastic chairs behind a drawn curtain, they determined the “best” course of action after several grueling hours. 

Yagami Light died in an effort to catch Kira on January 28th, 2010 at Yellow Box Warehouse in Yokohama. He was shot multiple times by Takada Kiyomi’s bodyguards at close range, ultimately succumbing to sudden cardiac death caused by severe blood loss.

Matsuda initially volunteered to deliver that information. He doesn’t know why. Something compelled him to raise his hand, some sense of obligation. He was shot down immediately of course. Aizawa got red in the face and Ide and Mogi had to calm him; it wasn’t good for his condition. Aizawa made his stance very clear; he growled to the others that it wasn’t Matsuda’s place, not after he was involved the way he was. What struck Matsuda most— “He wouldn’t be able to handle it.” Which is probably true. He’d most likely fall apart upon seeing Yagami Sayu and Yagami Sachiko in person. Might even somehow let it slip Light was Kira. Seeing as there was a funeral held for Light and he couldn’t make himself go, —he should’ve gone, his attendance was certainly expected, but he just couldn’t fucking go—  yeah, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

“Aizawa just needs time,” Ide says. “He’ll get over this.”

That's one big empty promise and Matsuda would bet anything Ide knows it. He sets his drink down on the table. “I feel…” like dying. “Awful.” 

“That’s… to be expected.” 

“Because I miss him.” 

He misses Light who took notice of the loneliness he tried to bury deep underground. Light, who built him up from the dirt. Light… who so kindly held him close and made his existence on this earth feel right when everything about life was wrong. Even if none of it was genuine, it still happened. And Light somehow still has a hold on him despite his betrayal, and he can’t even struggle loose or pry away his grip because it isn’t physically there. And another part of him that’s unforgivable doesn’t want to say goodbye to his touch. 

He risks a glance at Ide. His features have changed to something he can’t get a read on and that’s terrifying— Please don’t look at me like that.

Shit, he’s shaking. He interlaces his fingers in his lap and squeezes hard. Gaze flits to the floor. “I… I can’t explain it. I keep thinking I’ll see him, that he’ll be right there, and it’ll be as it always was. When, or if we ever go back to work, we’ll make coffee and we’ll sit together and he’ll be there.”

He misses him. “I want him back and it feels awful,” Matsuda says. He can’t bring himself to meet Ide’s eyes, so he stares somewhere else straight ahead without really seeing. It’s hot, too hot, which makes the ice cold chill that zips down his back all the more sickening, sick enough he wonders if it’ll bring up the whiskey he just downed. “That’s… messed up, isn’t it? I think I might be really screwed in the head.” He laughs without knowing why.

“That’s okay. It’s okay,” Ide tells him, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.

“No, it’s not. It’s not okay at all. I went along with it because he let me in and made me think I had something special to offer. And I… wanted to be special to him.” The same way he was special to me. What a pointless thing. 

His eyes sting fiercely. God, he really doesn’t want to cry. “And you wanna know something else that’s really, deeply not okay? I did know. Or I at least couldn’t deny it— that he was Kira. But that didn’t stop me from pursuing it, from- from pretending it wasn’t true just so I could be with him one more night because it felt good and everything outside of it was unbearable.” It hits him with a dull awareness that he’s almost yelling, but he can’t stop. 

There’s nowhere left for these ugly unsaid truths to live, so they fall out of his mouth. “It was selfish and pathetic, so you can stop holding back! I can’t take it anymore, so please stop acting like it’s fine. Seriously, why the hell can’t you have a normal reaction and yell at me like Aizawa?” 

“I’m not Aizawa. What do you want me to say? I’m not being kind to pity you. Listen, this whole thing is– it’s so fucked I have no idea how to even begin to unpack it, but Matsuda… you were caught in the middle of it. And I don’t envy your position. You’re letting this destroy you, and I can’t watch it. Cut yourself a break, would you?”

“I can’t.”

“…Why not?”

He curls his fingers then straightens them, recalling the overheated lighter he clutched for dear life at the warehouse. It seared a welt into his skin, now a raised pink mark; a reminder in the form of a soon-to-be scar. “Light-kun…” He hasn’t spoken his name aloud in days. It tastes familiar and strange and overwhelming. “I love– loved him,” he corrects. “I really did love him.” 

“And did he?”

The question flares hot at the base of Matsuda’s neck. It was an unexpectedly callous thing to say, even for Ide, tactless as he can be, and Matsuda almost questions if he heard right. He dares him to ask it again. “What?”

Ide meets his challenge, unfazed. “Did Light love you? Did he ever tell you?”

“What are you- What’s your problem? Are you trying to pick a fight? Because I’m really not in the mood.” 

“No fights. I just see you clinging onto something that isn’t there, and I want to know. Did it ever come out of his mouth— that he loved you?”

No. But the nights they spent together followed a script, one written by Light, one he performed alongside him religiously. And in that script, Light loved him. “He didn’t need to say it out loud. I know… at least some part of him did.”

Ide only shakes his head. “How do you know that?”

He doesn’t. 

A script is just that; a part to play. It’s very possible Light held no affection for him whatsoever and it was all a means to an end. For personal gain, validation, to toy with him, god knows what. It was a ruse he willingly fell for because he’ll chase any scrap of attention— but what’s it to Ide? 

Matsuda rises without fully realizing he’s stood, teetering on his feet. “Yeah, well who else was gonna love me?!” That escapes his mouth at a loud volume accompanied by a mortifying crack in his voice. 

His face burns hotter than the alcohol. If only he could sink back and disappear into the wall. Phase out of existence.

…Goddamnit. 

Why did he let himself think someone else —Light of all people— would want him that way? Was he seriously so gullible? Light was magnetic and brilliant and he was nothing.

“All it takes for you to open your legs is a little meaningless kindness. Isn’t that right?”

He was nothing.

Ide lowers his gaze and sits there slightly shaken, unable to find a reply. It’s… There it is— that pity. 

He doesn’t need it. “I don’t get you. Do you have to involve yourself in every shitty choice I make? Because you really don’t need to trouble yourself, Ide. I don’t know, did you ever stop to think maybe I don’t want your input?”

“Are you upset at me for giving a damn about you?” Ide scoffs.

“Ha, yeah, okay. Like you really—”

“And what if I do? What if I told you I care about you more than you think?”

I would ask why. He doesn’t know how to answer that because he can’t make himself believe those words.

Matsuda stands there awkwardly and focuses on his watered down drink on the low table. The sound of cars speeding down below fills his ears in the prolonged silence. He’s trapped within the walls of Ide’s apartment now turned inky blue as the sky grows dark, heat crawling up his thigh where his wound’s decided to flare up and words sitting heavy on his tongue he can’t make himself say. Hurts—  

He winces, raising his hand to find the skin broken on his index finger. Bright red droplet. Bright, sharp sting. 

Ide jolts to attention and reaches a hand out to Matsuda’s own injured one. “Hang on, I have adhesives somewhere…”

Ide’s touch is far too soft for comfort. Delicate like he’s something fragile, like he’ll crumble. “Eh? No, I’m fine. This is nothing.” He jerks his hand away and brings the wound to his mouth, letting his tongue run over the skin. “Seriously. It doesn’t even hurt.”

“It’s not nothing.” Before Matsuda can stop him, Ide gets to his feet and heads to the hall. Rummages around a storage bin.

(Ide has a metal plate in his shoulder. Ide runs out of breath walking up the stairs. Ide took a bullet for him and bled so much his heart stopped beating. Fuck, he’s fine, he’s more than fine. Ide’s the one who…) 

“Ide, please.” Heat rises to his eyes. The edges of the table, the sofa, the walls, become a watery blur. He bites the inside of his cheek. “It doesn’t hurt.” It’s a drop of blood. It’s laughable. This is stupid. This is barely something and he doesn’t deserve anything. From the carpet beneath his toes to the uncombed hair on the top of his head— all of him, his entire being, burns in discomfort. Waste of space. “It’s not worth…” 

Ide dips into the bathroom. “It’s worth taking care of.”  The faucet runs. “Hurts or not, you’re bleeding.” 

Matsuda lets out an exasperated sigh around the mass lodged in his throat, sitting there like a chain tied in a knot. He looks to some corner of the ceiling. Wills back tears. Why is he on the verge of crying, anyway? This isn’t a situation to fall apart over. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and rubs at them frustratedly, only to yank them away when Ide emerges from the hallway.

Ide strides over, box of band-aids in hand, along with a wet cloth and some kind of antibacterial ointment. He doesn’t waste time; he gets straight to work patching him up. Like he’s a little boy. 

“Christ, Ide, I can do that.” Matsuda’s voice rises in protest. He recoils. “I’m not… I’m not that useless. I’m not a kid.” And he’s aware that indignation only makes him sound all the more childish.

“I know you’re not a kid,” Ide says plainly. “But if I left you to it, would you choose to treat it yourself?”

No. He’d neglect it or pick at it worse. But he’s always done that. It’s nothing new.

Ide takes in the lack of response and gives Matsuda a knowing glance. “I can do something about it, so I am.” Gentle tap on his hand. “Simple as that.” Ide dabs at the wound with the cloth, applies ointment, then wraps the adhesive around his finger and smooths it over.

He makes an effort to find Matsuda’s eyes despite his avoidance. “Just… sit. Come sit.” He gestures to the cushion beside him with a slight nod of his head, then plucks up his glass and settles back like nothing happened, so Matsuda follows suit. 

Ide’s probably trying to revert the mood back to how it was, but the air’s shifted. They take slow sips in a room turned off-kilter, surrounded in a stuffy, hot fuzz. Matsuda tips his drink back an incremental amount, all at once unsure what to do within Ide’s presence. The whiskey tastes acidic, bitter as it ever was, but now somehow worse. It sours every taste bud. 

His fingers wrap tightly around the glass, lined up side by side, and for the first time, he sees the extent of the damage he’s done to himself these past few weeks. He knew, but for some reason the sight of it now, sitting here quietly drinking, pinches his heart. Those self-inflicted marks sting raw against the cold of the glass. And then adjacent to all that loathing is the bandage Ide applied. 

Such kind things…  

Light left him the broken pieces of something once whole. Only tiny fragments remain, containing kind words Light once told him he’s now terrified to let himself believe. He picks up each piece and examines it, nicking his hands in the process, but he can never discern their meaning and it only ever proves painful to try. As much as he’d like to gather those leftover memories and put them together into some shape that makes sense, he can’t. It’s irreparable. 

And so when Ide tells him he cares, he– he can’t do it. He can’t comprehend it. 

It all fell apart and Light’s gone.

“I shot him. I killed him,” Matsuda says. He doesn’t know what prompted those words to come out of his mouth, but he knows they’re true.

“You didn’t kill him.” 

“Yes, I did. Ryuk finished what I—”

Ide’s glass hits the table with a loud thud. “Matsuda, if you didn’t shoot him, I would have. Hell, I regret not writing his name in the Death Note when we had the chance. Aizawa might think that’s unforgivable or it violates some moral standard we’re supposed to be upholding, but if it’s us or Light, I’ll choose us every time.” 

A siren wails outside. Echoes far away. Matsuda keeps his eyes trained on the liquid still settling in Ide’s glass, the spillage down the side and the pool collected at the base.

Ide takes a slow breath in. “It was an impossible situation. If you’re carrying around this guilt for…” he trails off. “You did what you had to. We all did. As far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”

Something snaps. “You think I don’t know that?!” Matsuda turns to face Ide abruptly. “He was trying to murder us, I’m not stupid. I should hate him and I do. That day, some part of me wanted to- I wanted to kill him. I got so close and I…”

Screw all of this. Screw Light, who twisted him around his finger and messed with his head beyond repair. And now he’s only a fraction of himself— the other pieces were lost somewhere along the way when he offered up his whole, unconditional self to him. 

“More than anything, I wanted him to give it back.” Matsuda's hand flexes and tenses, then becomes a tight fist. “All those pointless years, and then the months we were together. If it didn’t mean anything to him, I want him to give it back to me.” Nails stab into his palm. “I want it back! But it’s gone because he’s dead—” That word hits the back of his throat and he nearly gags. “He’s dead. And he took it.” Those missing pieces of himself can't be retrieved because they died when Light did. “So then why am I still…?” he chokes. 

Why am I still chasing his back?

Still clamoring for approval and seeking proof of “love”. It’s not like Light can turn around now and tell him, Yes, it was real. Despite what I said, yes, it meant something. You meant something. He can’t keep grasping at straws to maintain this mental image of Light as he thought he knew him. It won’t work. It won’t change anything. 

There’s this dream he’s been having. Maybe a dream, more likely something he hallucinated running on fumes. But the made-up scene plays on maddening repeat. 

Light walks into HQ, finds a desk and gets straight to work as he always does, with zeroed-in eyes and a thoughtful hand framing his face. He glances over his shoulder when he notices Matsuda staring. 

Light asks him what’s wrong.  
“I just… I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing anymore.”
He tells him not to look so down.
“I wish I didn’t wish you were here.”
Light doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he asks if Matsuda wants a cup of coffee because he’s headed to the kitchen.
Whatever his answer, Light rises wordlessly from his chair and brushes past him.
He pauses when he reaches the hall, face in profile and hair hiding his eyes.

Light tells him he’s sorry.

“What?”

He lifts his gaze and turns to face Matsuda. Shows him a sad smile.

I’m sorry it ended up this way. 

Matsuda never quite catches those words, no matter how many times he’s looped the godforsaken scene, and yet somehow he’s certain they’re said. They echo in his brain. 

When Light steps down the hallway and out of sight, he doesn’t return. And Matsuda’s left sitting there, waiting for him. Waiting for no one at all.

He doesn’t know why his head conjured this thing that plagues him. Closure? It doesn’t matter. Anything his subconscious crafts will never manifest because Light is rotting in a grave in the same plot as Chief Yagami. Shit, he’s drunk and he’s a mess and he’s spouting all this nonsense out loud.

“It doesn’t make any sense, I know,” Matsuda mutters to the watered-down whiskey in his grasp. The liquid sloshes around. Glass slippery with condensation. He still has the better sense to set the drink on the table before he inevitably spills it.

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Ide says after a moment. “Seeing his true face… We all had our suspicions— no, I was certain, but even so, I… What I mean to say is, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, myself.” His hands tremble in his lap. “Christ, I could barely make sense of it when it was happening right in front of my eyes. When he was ordering us dead.”

Ide looks like he did that night they shared an umbrella. They’d stood waiting for the train, soaked from the downpour, and he’d really wanted to reach out and take Ide in his arms, because he wasn’t shaking from the cold, no, Ide was so scared—

“Were you afraid I was going to stand by and let you all die at the warehouse? Afraid that I… that I’d write your names?” Matsuda asks.

“A little, yes.” 

He thought hearing those words from Ide might sting, but he can only feel relieved by the honest response. 

“Were you?” Ide peers up at him.

And he owes him the same honesty. “…Yes.” 

“But you didn’t. What you did, if you hadn’t- We’d all be dead if you didn’t stop Mikami. If you didn’t stop Light. I really, honestly believed we were goners.” A fragile smile forms on Ide’s lips. “If you hadn’t acted when you did, that exact second, you and I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

Ide raises a hand to Matsuda’s head like the gesture is second nature, only to freeze. He hesitates, reconsidering that sliver of intimacy and whether it’s okay, while Matsuda can barely restrain himself from grabbing him and pulling him in because the only thought left in his head is shouting, Please. That silent need must have been enough, as Ide reaches forward to comb his fingers through his hair. 

Matsuda leans into the familiar touch. Ide used to do this all the time and he missed it dearly.

“You know I think about you all the time?”

The question floats in the space between them.

Matsuda squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead into Ide’s hand. “Why do you like me…?” he half laughs, half chokes. His disbelief builds to gnarled despair as he speaks. “Would you tell me, because I don’t understand it. Why do you like me? I don’t even like me. I hate—” The last word leaps from his throat, but he can’t finish it. The rest dies in the air.

And then he’s jolted back to life as Ide takes him by the shoulder and speaks to him straight on.

“It’s not like I know exactly why myself…! You’re impulsive and immature and I’m often- just- astonished you made it this far when you have zero regard for your own safety! I mean, honestly, how does one man manage to get into so much goddamn trouble?”

It’s not the response Matsuda expected. At all. And he thinks he should probably be offended, but he has half a mind to crack a smile. Snapped out of the midst of a dark thought by Ide’s indelicacy. And that’s just like Ide.

“Yet somehow, out of the blue, when we’re all but screwed and on our last legs, you save us. Because you’re the most quick-witted out of all of us. And it’s always, always at risk to yourself. You make me worry like crazy, and I just…” Ide slips his hand from Matsuda’s shoulder to scrub it across his own face. “I can’t leave you alone.” 

“…Why?” He’s not worth being worried over. Much less loved. “You don’t have to stay with me, you’re not obligated to. I mean, you- you shouldn’t have to. I haven’t done anything right. I never— I make everything worse. You deserve someone who’s not…” —his hands gesture weakly, then fall— “…this.”  

Ide doesn’t reply. Instead, he leaves the sofa and comes to kneel in front of him so they’re face-to-face. He covers Matsuda’s hand with his own and guides it up to the side of his head. Matsuda lets him, even if the meaning behind the gesture escapes him. 

Keeping Matsuda’s hand held to his cheek, Ide simply says, “You can’t decide that for me.” 

Ide’s skin burns hot and Matsuda can feel his heartbeat thrumming fast under his fingertips. Tops of his ears flushed.  

That’s right, Ide’s ears always— “You know when you get all flustered, your ears go bright red.”

Oh. It’s proof.

Ide’s giving him proof. He really… It doesn’t make any damn sense, but Ide really does…

“I don’t know why I like you, or maybe there’s too many reasons,” Ide says into Matsuda’s palm. “I like you, just you. Not because you’ve done anything right or wrong. You don’t have to ‘do’ anything.” Lips pressed to his skin. “I can’t leave you alone because I want to be with you. That’s why.” Regret furrows his features. “And I wish I’d made that clear to you sooner.” 

The evidence piles up in Matsuda’s head. Ide’s sly looks at headquarters, peering at him from the corner of his eye. That lingering gaze. Gentle hand on his back. When banter turned to what was undeniably flirting. Ide’s presence was a comfort gifted each tireless day working the case. It became the first thing Matsuda did when he walked in the door each morning— found him. Oh, Ide. Ide’s here. Then everything was alright. And he’d gotten used to it because Ide was always there. He had to be, otherwise the picture didn’t look quite right. 

It’s probably selfish, but he finds himself saying, “Then, don’t. Don’t leave me alone.” 

“Mm.” Ide looks up from the hand cupping his face, beet red. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Matsuda’s touch falls from flushed skin to idly play with the hair at Ide’s nape. It’s soft and short and usually neatly kept, now tousled and imperfect in his fingers. In these strange days following the 28th wading through the aftermath of it all with little to no sleep, they haven’t bothered looking presentable around one another. Unpolished and just getting by. That closeness is unparalleled. It’s the only thing that feels real and he wants it near.

It’s all a mess. He’s a mess, and he’s forcing Ide to help clean it up. Which is beyond unfair. Ide’s making a horrible mistake in choosing him, but Matsuda can’t bring himself to tell him. He doesn’t want this to stop. 

“You’re such an idiot, Ide…” 

Ide laces his uninjured arm through Matsuda’s, bringing them into a loose embrace. “You called me that before. It’s not going to become a habit, is it?”

Matsuda ducks into the shoulder in front of him. “Well, it’s true,” he says, words muffled as he breathes Ide in, heat stinging his eyes.

“You’re the one who said you like this honest side of me.” 

“I do.” Very much so.

“Then it’s okay.”

Please, closer.

Matsuda makes an effort to find Ide’s eyes. He holds their gaze as his hands wander up to grasp at his back somewhat urgently, and Ide thankfully takes that as a cue to lean in. When their lips meet, it’s only a brush. Ide’s being so cautious, so delicate, and it’s not nearly enough.

“More,” Matsuda whispers. He's all need, no finesse. Trembling hard and seeking him. “Ide, please. More.” Such a goddamn mess.

With that, Ide crashes into him. It’s sudden and hot and melts the doubts in his brain. Everything that tells him Ide’s going to regret this and even if he doesn’t, he doesn’t deserve this, disappears into heat because small sounds of pleasure escape Ide’s mouth between kisses and the desperation behind his every breath and movement spells out so clearly that he can’t get enough. Ide’s desire for him is inexplicable yet completely irrefutable. It overwhelms Matsuda, boiling over as he comes apart— and fuck, if he weren’t so far gone right now, he’d probably sob. 

Matsuda falls back into the sofa when the intensity renders him jelly and Ide follows him, not leaving his lips for a second. His breath hitches when a hand spreads across his chest. When there’s even the slightest hint that beautiful touch might draw away, Matsuda takes hold of Ide’s wrist to keep him firmly there. 

“More– This– I–” Half formed thoughts cloud Matsuda’s brain. He drags the warm surface of Ide’s palm over him, touching him, any way he can. 

Hot breath graces his skin where Ide kisses and sucks at his neck, traveling lower until he finds his way beneath his collar. And then Ide walks a hand under his shirt. Meets bare skin. Matsuda doesn’t know why just that has him writhing, ready to fall apart on the spot. But it does.

“Here?” Ide exhales into the crook of his neck. 

Matsuda moans some affirmative sound— he thinks. And Ide responds with a lovely heat-filled sigh he’s never heard before. They both fumble with his buttons, Ide one-handed, and him not much more help, lost in a daze. He alternates in a frenzy between tugging at the fabric, getting lost in Ide’s scent, and clinging to him tight. He can’t stop and he’s being so grossly desperate. 

“Sorry,” pops from his mouth. 

“What?” 

Matsuda turns his face away into the cushion below him, wishing he could vanish even though there’s nowhere to hide. “No, I just… I’m– ha. Already like this. I don’t know.” This pathetic, needy display. “I’m sorry.” No wonder Light—

“I did it because it was easy.”

“Matsuda.” 

A hand cups his face, thumb smoothing across his cheek, over his ear, tilting his focus back up. There’s a breathy laugh above him. 

When Matsuda finally looks, he finds Ide looking back. And he’s wrecked. Panting hard and flushed all over. Completely undone— the same as him.

Despite the embarrassment eating Ide alive, he doesn’t break their gaze. He simmers in the vulnerability and asks Matsuda with a slight waver, “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” 

They stay wrapped in one another’s limbs. Share in heavy breaths and something intangible that aches and burns. They kiss until it becomes more than kissing. Touch until Ide comes up between his legs and starts a lazy rut that turns his head to liquid. They stumble from the sofa tangled in each other and nearly don’t make it down the hall when Matsuda tells Ide he’d like to be in his bed. The moment they fall onto the sheets, right and wrong don’t exist and they lay their mistakes scattered across the ground with all the other broken remains of the last two weeks— temporarily put to rest. Even if only for a night.

Matsuda holds on tight. And Ide holds him like he’s dear.

___________

February 12, 2010

“…I really do like that side of you. It’s honest. You should show it to me more often.”

Ide wakes to sun in his eyes and a window glazed with a thin layer of ice. A crisp, bright white shines in through the blinds, contrasting the warm grays cloaking his closet of a bedroom. He registers snow falling in heavy flakes out there. What started as a flurry seems to have picked up, accumulating fast on the ground. 

With a yawn and a stretch, he slips from the blankets and hooks his legs over the side of the bed. He reaches out to touch the glass pane, the sting of the cold turning his fingertips pink. Probably below freezing out there. But it isn’t cold here, no, the space heater hums in the corner and Matsuda curls up in the plush of the comforter behind him. Asleep in his bed. 

Waking up next to Matsuda… is new. Surreal as the realization is, it’s also good. Really good.

Matsuda’s bedhead is impressive. Thick and fluffy. He stirs in his sleep, nuzzling further into the pillow and twisting in such a way that causes a section of hair to stick straight up like an antenna— Ide clamps a hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh. Breathes out through his nose. He remembers the times Matsuda slept past his alarm and arrived at HQ scattered and frantic, no time to run a comb through it, or forgetting completely, and Ide was treated to this same sight. 

Ide’s gaze continues to fall over him. The blinds spill bars of light across his form. He sleeps so soundly and for a short time they exist someplace peaceful; it’s temporary, but even so… Matsuda’s face rests easy in the pillow, bedsheets rising and falling over his chest with long, steady breaths. Soft lashes caught in the sunlight. Beautiful.  

A burst of heat hits him. Blooms and spreads across his skin. He directs his focus elsewhere, anywhere else, opting to look back out the window. Oh, for fuck’s sake… He covers his face, and while his cold fingers help lessen the flush on his cheeks, they do little to slow his heart rate. Was he always this helpless when it came to Matsuda? 

He sighs. 

He’s aware he’s letting himself get swept up in the moment, and it doesn’t take long before reality creeps back in. It’s a near constant anxiety, yet it hits him fresh every time.

Matsuda acts like his life is already over. He himself can’t grasp what the future may hold, can’t even think most days, but he’s certain of one thing— they’re alive, here and now, and there’s more, so much more. He rose from his bed every morning despite the weight of it all, lighter simply with the knowledge Matsuda was in the next room. 

Matsuda is always so eager to throw himself away. And that scares Ide. Deeply.

—Ide…—

Fingers brush his side. — Ide. Hey, Ide.—

Matsuda blinks up at him drowsily then grins, having caught his attention. "Ide." Greets him with a languid, “Good morning,” not all awake.

“Morning. Sorry, didn’t realize you were up.” The whiskey was strong. He still feels traces of it at the back of his throat. “No headache?” 

“Ah.” Matsuda places a curious hand to his temple. “…Weirdly, no. I sort of feel better than I’ve felt in days. I actually slept,” he says, astonished. 

He really needed it. “Glad to hear it.”

“What were you staring at?”

Nothing, really. “Noth–” He pauses. “…It’s snowing.” He raises the blinds.

The bed creaks as Matsuda pulls himself up to sit beside him, taking the bedding with him. His grogginess disappears in an instant. Something young, something energetic and alive lights up his features— an expression Ide hasn’t seen in a long time. He’s cute, really, more cute than he has any right to be. 

“Amazing, look. Everything’s white.” Matsuda absorbs the scene with wide eyes before closing them and cozying into the comforter wrapped around his shoulders. “That’s good.” 

“Yeah? It means I’m gonna freeze my ass off getting groceries.”

“What—?” Matsuda pouts. “C’mon, let’s stay in. You don’t really have to go, do you?”

Ide turns to him, giving a lighthearted scoff. “You really okay with instant noodles again?”

Matsuda’s arms find their way around him. He huffs a laugh and nods. “It’s fine, it’s fine. One more day won’t kill us. It’s nice to just… be here.”

Ide can’t say he disagrees.

They end up staring out the window for a long while, entranced in something as mundane as snowfall. While the view itself isn’t extraordinary, Ide doesn’t think he’ll forget it. 

“It’s pretty, huh?”

Ide takes in the words. Steals a glance Matsuda’s way. “It is.” 

“…Were you thinking about something?”

“Hm?”

“You were all spaced-out. I called your name three times. You get lost in thought like that sometimes, you know? It always makes me wonder what’s on your mind.”

Ide hums. Absent-mindedly trails a hand up Matsuda’s side, up the white plush of the comforter, pausing at his shoulder. “Mostly you.” It’s always been Matsuda. “Yeah, it’s pretty much always you.” Which is the undeniable truth, but— Christ, what am I saying?

Matsuda’s hands shoot up to cover his face. “Uwahh. Embarrassing…” He peeks through his fingers, playing up his reaction. “Did Ide-san of all people really just say a line like that?” He’s red.

But Ide’s certain he’s ten times redder. “W-well, you wanted to know.”

“No, that makes me… I don’t know what to do. It’s not something I expected to come out of your mouth, is all.”

They steep in their collective, giddy embarrassment, sat in a silent blush on the bed. Like a couple of teenagers confessing to one another. Which feels largely out of place and somewhat humiliating, but, god, who cares anymore? It’s weirdly nice. So nice, Ide doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Is it okay to feel this happy? Matsuda nudges against his hand, slips it into his. Yeah. Soft, warm skin. Who cares? The mood becomes a pleasant buzz. He can feel bad later, because this—  this is good.

Matsuda leans his weight into him. 

“Thank you.” 

“Huh?” Ide blinks. “For what?” 

There’s an extended pause. 

“…I’m not sure how to say it. It should be for letting me crash here for so long, or keeping me fed, or just being there—” 

“You don’t have to thank me for that.” 

“No, I do. But that’s not what I’m trying to say. I just- I feel like you always understood.”

Ide tilts his head, unable to decipher the statement.

“I told you, I don’t know how to explain it.” Matsuda casts a sheepish glance and picks over his next words. 

“I think I wanted someone to know me. To really look and see and find me when I needed it. Which, yeah, our team’s had each other’s company for six years straight. We were stuck together almost every day, every hour. Constant enough, I’m surprised we weren't sick of each other,” he chuckles. Then his gaze lowers. “So I don’t know how it managed to be so lonely.” His smile fades. “I was scared to wake up in the morning. Every morning. It’s impossible to live like that. I- I wouldn’t be of any use, wouldn’t be able to do anything. And I couldn't afford to be any more of a burd–” Matsuda catches himself, face reddening with shame like he said too much. He continues after a shaky exhale. “I pushed the fear down and that seemed to work. So it stayed buried.” 

How long… Matsuda all at once looks so small next to him. Ide tightens the hold on his hand. Just how long have you been bearing it alone?

“I hid it well, even on the worst days. And no one suspected a thing. I mean, I even started to convince myself.” Matsuda peers over at him. “But then- then there was you—” 

No. Ide shakes his head. I didn’t do anything. “I pretended not to notice it was eating at you when– I mean, who wouldn’t it? We were all pulled through the mud, but I couldn’t see that you were… that is, I didn’t want to see—” He can’t find the words. “I didn’t see you. Not properly.”

“But you did. I could tell you didn’t fall for it when I tried to laugh it off. You saw right through me.” 

And yet he never said a damn thing. Doesn’t that make it worse? “It wasn’t enough.” 

Matsuda shifts his gaze back to the window. Says with a soft voice, “I loved it, you know. Our walks to the station after work. I really did. Every night we laughed and talked about whatever and ran to catch the last train.” He huffs a laugh. “It wasn’t a big thing, but it was… I don’t know if I would’ve survived without it. I think I was ‘found’ by you all those times. …Does that make any sense?” 

He wanted to “find” more of Matsuda, but he never spoke up, never followed through. Couldn’t dismantle the dismal view he held of himself. He touched the surface, perhaps, but it wasn’t the plunge he should have taken. “Yeah.” If he speaks too much, he’ll well up. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.” He pulls Matsuda closer. “I’m sorry,” is all he says before shutting himself up.

Matsuda rests his head on his shoulder with closed eyes and a knitted brow. “Don’t apologize.”

The snow continues to fall.

There’s a loss. A deep dark pit— and they were left abandoned at the bottom of it. Now they're forced to claw their way out all on their own; no police chief, no leader. Can’t let on to anyone who Light really was, not even those closest to him. Can’t reveal what transpired at the warehouse that day. Shackled with this ugly fucking secret that only drags them back down the hole. “What I wouldn’t give to have the Deputy Director here to guide us through this,” Ide thinks out loud.

The words marinate for a good minute before Matsuda finds a reply. When he does, it's full of hesitancy. “I used to grieve the Chief’s death every day, but… I stopped recently. It’s wrong- probably wrong to say, but I don’t think he could live knowing the truth about Light. About what he tried to do.”

Ide thinks that’s probably true seeing as Matsuda can barely stand to live with it, and so Yagami Soichiro… If he were still alive, the truth might kill him. 

“I’m glad he didn’t live to see it,” Matsuda whispers like it’s a sin, but says it aloud nonetheless. “What would he even say to us if he were here? After everything? What would he say… Say to…” he trails off.

“Say to you?” 

Matsuda bows his head slightly, hiding his eyes, giving no response but asking for one all the same. Ide opens his mouth prepped with an automated answer, —He’d be proud of you for doing what’s right in the end. For choosing to stop evil and preserve true justice.—  but Matsuda’s owed better. He thinks on his words. 

“…I think he’d tell us that we did what we could. We made our choices and we can’t take them back, but, god, none of it was easy. He’d tell you that you did your best with what you were dealt. You gave it your all.” Ide squeezes Matsuda tighter, and Matsuda ducks into his shoulder, buries his face. Hiding the threat of tears. “And it was enough. It was enough.” Ide lets him. 

Light’s vision for a “New World” didn’t tolerate missteps or bad choices. His utopia wouldn’t house them, no, their lives would be cut short under Kira’s rule. Unforgiving of such an intrinsic part of what it means to be alive. 

“Humans aren’t perfect, Matsuda. People make mistakes.”

Matsuda doesn’t respond, he can’t. He just presses tighter into his side. Broken sighs escape, gasps of air, all the pent up anguish pouring out that can’t be muffled in his shoulder. 

“I’m lucky, you know. When I rejoined the investigation after a year, I wasn’t sure who’d be left. Who I’d have with me. Matsuda…” He smooths a hand over his back, over his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs he can no longer choke back. “I’m so glad it was you.”

They sit in bed for much of the morning, maybe all of it. 

After the silent tears are shed, Matsuda murmurs into Ide’s side, “What are we supposed to do?” 

The question is vague, but Ide understands with sobering clarity. He’s been asking himself the same thing the last couple weeks. They probably still have jobs with the NPA if they want them, if they choose to move on to the next thing and get reassigned. But— “I don’t know.” 

The Kira Investigation was their lives, and then it was turned on its head and shattered into a million pieces all in the span of a single afternoon. They managed to close a case that only ever slipped through their fingers, and in some other world where things are normal that would be the greatest accomplishment of their careers. But instead they’re left with… this. So what now?

“What do you want to do?” Ide asks.

“I want to lie here with you. For a long time. Maybe forever.” Matsuda buries himself in the sheets. “…It smells like Ide,” he says, mostly to himself, then looks up at him through his lashes. “Smells like you. I love it.”

Ide’s face catches fire. “And- and what about you…?! Talk about embarrassing- the hell was that line?? I can’t believe you just said that so casually—”

Matsuda collapses into the bedding behind him, laughing his head off.

That bright and lifting sound.

Matsuda will be the death of him. Ide sprawls out next to him, a surrendering plop onto the mattress. “Unfair. You’re really unfair.”

It feels wrong to laugh and smile and enjoy this. Things will never go back to how they were before, he knows. So then, why shouldn’t they laugh…? It’s exhausting to exist on the edge of breaking down completely and getting on with life, and they walk that tightrope every day. He doesn’t want to take for granted when the knotted burden of everything they’re forced to carry around loosens. If there’s a moment of respite, they deserve to reach out and touch it, keep it as their own if only for a little while. Don’t they? It’s fleeting and he…

He'll hold on to it for as long as he can. He turns on his side, minding his cast, and nestles into Matsuda’s back. Brushes his lips over his nape. Matsuda melts into it, twisting around to face him, so Ide places a kiss on his lips, then continues down his jaw, his neck. Matsuda lifts his chin, asking for more. 

Many parts were false, crafted and choreographed by Light, lost forever when his heart stopped beating on the warehouse floor. But that deep rooted lie planted in their lives— even that couldn’t touch the relics outside of it. As few and far between as they were, they existed. The warmth of mismatched coffee cups that melted tiredness away. Tabletops marked with ink by wayward pens. Loose threads on a well-worn couch. Matsuda’s goofy grin peeking up from the muffler wrapped around his face on cold days. A rainy night sharing an umbrella.

Fogged windows and mysterious city light reflected on clouds. 

Those pieces weren’t lies.

Beneath the covers, they lie next to one another and stare at the ceiling, Matsuda’s hand clasped in his own, holding onto one another, to the few pieces remaining.

They soak in each other’s presence and it reminds Ide of nights sat side by side at HQ. It’s different now, forever fractured, yet strangely peaceful all the same. Whatever it’s become, he wants to be here. Wants to reach out and find Matsuda again and again, make up for the times he failed to seek him out. He’ll cherish him close for as long as Matsuda will have him. 

Just this— this alone, is fine. Because what’s important hasn’t been lost. Far from it.

Living out simple days together in an imperfect world is more than enough.