Living with ghosts has never been easy. A set of three pieces featuring Light, Misa, and Near.
(killing softly and serial.)
Oh, he'll remember this forever. Abso-fucking-lutely.
Light drifts through the center like a ghost, the room darkened but for the anemic glow of the monitors. It is deserted here, its patrons dead, the other members of the team surely wringing their hands at home, waiting for that telltale pressure to rise up inside their fragile chests.
(he is not the ghost)
Beside a stack of old reports lies a slender tea spoon, still sticky with old saliva and traces of sugar.
He does not want this. Light does not dwell upon obstacles removed.
(God does not second-guess himself)
Yet as always, Ryuuzaki proves to be the exception to the rule even from beyond the grave, a lingering, tangible presence accompanied by the bitter feeling that maybe Light didn't win as much as he'd first thought after all.
L was his enemy, the proverbial wrench thrown carelessly into the gears of his grand machinations. Ryuuzaki-
Ryuuzaki had made Light's life interesting for a while, and maybe brought him a little bit of happiness. Perhaps Light had deceived Ryuuzaki about many things (sometimes on purpose; sometimes not), but he had not lied when it mattered.
Light is haunted by cake crumbs and six different flavors of vanilla, a handful of sugar cubes scattered beneath the desk. His hand shakes as it touches the glass. He can hear a voice rattling off percentages and scenarios, ways that he could have avoided this whole stupid mess in the first place.
It is his own.
(singing the song her sinking lover sung.)
Some days are better than others. Days when he was still alive, certainly.
Misa sits kneeling on her apartment floor, surrounded by flowers (mostly wilted) and plush animals that grin down at her manically. She has not taken a job since her last conversation with Matsuda, and unheard voicemail floods her cell. Hey Misa-Misa, this is Yakimoto speaking. We're worried down here. Don't you remember? We have a contract.
She is dimly aware that she's sitting wrong, the beginnings of paraesthesia harassing her skinny legs. She can't remember how long she has been here or even why, only that there are things left to left to be done. And she is right, of course - she often is - it's just that the world she inhabits cares for little more than the promise of bare curves and kisses.
(And eyes, of course, but that is a different story.)
There is nothing special about this notebook. Nothing at all.
kanji like broad, like the fist-sized hole in her chest he once inhabited
kanji like ocean
kanji like sand.
She keeps writing, ink-stained fingers cramping (she doesn't stop) as she repeats the characters over, over again. The pages are turning black.
Misa is haunted by pressed shirts and pens twirling on perfectly rounded fingertips, the ghost of a fallen god. (Two, really, but only one that mattered, even if the words he whispered were mostly lies.)
But not for long.
(you've still got to ask for proof.)
Near is more comfortable close to the earth, even seperated by layers of concrete and subways and water mains. It keeps him grounded. It keeps him humble.
Behind him, Gevanni's hands dance across two keyboards, hunting either criminals or information - the others left him days ago, tired but alive. How fortunate that his team made out so well. He understands he had not necessarily been the one better prepared, but things are far simpler when one's hands are allowed to stay clean. Mello has assured him that privilege.
(another debt unpaid)
Tiny finger puppets lay scattered amidst chocolate wrappers before him, vulgar effigies of the people they represent. After a moment's deliberation he selects two of them, feeling the cold weight in his palm.
One: eyes bulging, a lump of dirty white to indicate hair.
The other: golden and impish and scarred, a bit more intricate than the others.
He studies them for a moment, compiling lists of differences and similarities, passive-stone-introverted, fearless-kinetic-/gone/-
He sighs and closes his hand into a fist. In the darkness there, plastic cheeks press together, hard lines and soft curves surrendering in pursuit of a whole.
(but only until the pressure is gone)
Near is haunted by the raw scent of leather and the memory of cool, most hands wrapped 'round his throat, the inexplicable feeling of something missing.
/Naturally/, he thinks.