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Chapter Text

"We're all really looking forward to [Yagami's] debut. He's done all he can to prepare. The guys just have to put their trust in Coach's vision to see how this is all gonna play out."

—Shuici Aizawa, New Jersey Killers, Assistant Coach

"[Lawliet] has proven that he's the best player today. I'm confident we'll see him score his 300th goal in tonight's game. The team, the fans, everyone is really excited. It's an honour to have him with us for such a milestone."

—Watari, New York Scouts, Head Coach

"I'm very proud, both as a coach and as a father. Light's been working hard since his acquisition, and the guys have welcomed him with open arms. The chips are gonna fall how they're gonna fall and we're just gonna have to wait and see."

—Soichiro Yagami, New Jersey Killers, Head Coach

"I'm just gonna try to keep things simple tonight. If there's a play to be made, I'll make it, but I don't plan on doing anything crazy. I'm just gonna try to pitch in where I can."

—Light Yagami, New Jersey Killers, #89

Note: The TSN team reached out to L. Lawliet, but he declined to comment.

Blood is never as red as it is on the ice.

"Snitch."

That's the last thing he remembers hearing before the end of the world.

Light snaps his head up, dazed. The sweat has nearly dried everywhere that is exposed to the cold air of the arena as he pants, regaining his footing. Under all the gear, his heart pounds. A furnace, raging red. It kind of makes him feel high, the adrenaline. Maybe that's why he can taste the blood, why he can see it on the ice floor, but can't tell where it's coming from.

"I have a question about your hands."

Light looks at his hands, and they are naked. His hands are naked and his stick is gone. Lost at sea, somewhere out there with his mitts and his teammates and the rest of the universe. All but Lawliet and his big, ugly hockey puck eyes. He skates forward until he's nose to nose with Light.

Light can feel Lawliet's breath on his face, he can hear the squelching of his mouthguard, half hanging out. Light could rip it out with his teeth right here, right now if he wanted to.

"Are you gonna ask it?"

"Yes." Lawliet smirks through a near whisper, scanning Light's face. "Are they going to actually hit me? Or just think about what it would've been like when they're down your pants tonight?"

Light's fist reels back and the crowd cheers harder than they have all night. Lawliet flashes a grin, and it's the most meanspirited thing he's ever seen. Come, come, it says. Let me take this, too.

So, the bastard wanted this from the beginning. Light just doesn't know why, and isn't sure that fighting is the best way to find out. But the only thing worse than following through now would be to forfeit, and hasn't he found himself at one hell of a crossroad? They've both taken formation. Declared their new rivalry to the world and sealed it with a fist. Would bowing out now make him a laughing stock? Would following through make him a goon?

Light hesitates.

"Mmm, thought so."

Then strikes.

Three Hours Earlier

"Welcome back to a very special pre-game episode of Coach's Corner. Coming to you live from New York, I'm Ryuk Ohba."

"And I'm Rem Obata, and tonight is New Jersey's home opener against New York. It is safe to say all eyes are on rookie Light Yagami: a nineteen year old centreman from Ottawa, Canada, who is debuting for the New Jersey Killers."

"I'll tell you one thing, kid has a killer smile. Hope he's got a slapshot to match it." Ryuk argues.

"Well, he grew up watching his father play in the league, he's seen what the guys go through. That kind of perspective is going to be a major advantage for him."

"Rem, baby, I hear you! Kid's got gusto, but—"

"For the love of God, don't call me baby."

"—No, nope! No fighting!" The camera operator shrieks, "we're on a tight schedule!"

"I didn't do nuthin'! She's the one always crawling up my a**—"

"I have done no such thing."

"Fine!" Ryuk throws his hands in the air, dramatically. "…All I was gonna say was, uh,"

"Take your time."

"I will," Ryuk says with a smile, "thank you Rem."

"It's only live television."

"Ok. Ok," Ryuk recovers, "kid's good, I'll give you that. But, I dunno, you got guys in the locker room, some of them got a decade on you, and your freakin' Dad's crackin' the whip day and night. Lotta pressure, who says he won't crack?"

"Sure, but you could say that about any green player. Yagami is undoubtably one of the most exciting prospects in Killers history, at least since I've been on the air, and-"

"You mean since the invention of television?"

"Let's talk New York," Rem says, ignoring him.

"My favourite city! We're also celebrating a milestone tonight here in the Big Apple. Centreman L. Lawliet is set to score his 300th goal, and if you ask me, nothin' is getting in the way of that. If I were Yagami I'd be shaking in my shin pads."

"So you think New York is taking home the win?"

"I couldn't say, but, from all of us here at TSN," Ryuk declares, "thanks for joining us. Let's see how this shakes out, folks!"

"Light, are you ready?"

"I think so."

"Just be yourself."

"Yeah. Thanks, Coach."

His father's grip on Light's neck flexes once, twice, and then he retreats to the back of the line, to a more familiar distance. The word 'Dad' sits heavy on his tongue, and a small part wonders if harm's been had not saying it. This is a big moment for the family, after all. The moment. The one they've all been waiting for.

"Oh, and call your mother, after the game."

"Yeah, yeah. Of course," Light beams back.

His Mom and Sayu are definitely curled up on the couch, watching back home in Ottawa. It's a shame he won't be able to look for them in the stands.

There's a small worry there that things aren't alright, and haven't been for a while between his parents. Why his Dad fought so hard for them to keep the house instead of sell it.

One of his teammates pats him on the shoulder and it jostles him from the thought. Not that he falters, of course. He'd shelled out on a pair of Bauer Vapors, and stands tall in them. It was a purchase he'd always dreamed of making but could never justify before today.

When he looks down at them, there's this feeling in his chest, like being on some sort of strange precipice of waking up.

This is the limerant dream, come true. Of course it feels strange to really be here.

Twenty of them idle in the players' tunnel, a liminal space between locker room and rink. They're packed like sardines in a can. For a minute, Light thinks he can hear cheap aluminum peeling open, but then he realizes it's just the shutter of several dozen cameras. There are cameras everywhere.

The arena dims, and all is dark save for the scoreboard; a surrogate sun to lead them to victory. A voice blares over the loudspeakers and the masses lean in like sunflowers. It looks like a sell-out tonight.

"Here's your starting lineup for your New Jerseyyyyyyy Killlleeeeerrrrrssssss! Make some NOOOOO-OOOIIIISE!!!!!!"

The crowd cheers, starved.

"Kill 'em, son!" Soichiro hollers, and Light resents him for the insinuation that he needs the last minute pep talk. If his hands are shaking it is consequence of the chemicals in his body fighting to take the wheel. Adrenaline and endorphins rake over his muscles, vibrating in much the same way as the thousands of fists shaking the glass. Ready to be thrown into the lion's den. Ready to kill.

There is no shame in being nervous—which he isn't. If he were, no one would know. Light has an excellent poker face.

"Number 89!"

Here it comes.

"Light YAGAMIIIIIIII!!!!!"

He breathes in until he feels resistance against his shoulder pads. Holds. Then exhales. The player's door opens and it is time for him to take the inaugural step into stardom.

He takes it, flawlessly.

His skate—sharpened to 5"/8", best for speed and reducing friction—steps out onto the ice. It's smooth, freshly flooded. And Light is the one who has been bestowed the honor of desecrating it first. The impulse to scrape it to hell and back boils in his belly.

There is time for that, after he pays his debt to the thousands of people in the stands, all waiting for their little piece of Light Yagami. And who would he be, if he didn't give the people what they came for?

"We love you Light!"

"Kill'em, Yagami!"

Light takes his virgin lap of the rink and waves to the masses as they scream. One by one, his teammates follow. The starting lineup does their little jig for the crowd until everyone's benched, waiting for the opposing team to do the same. Once that's done, it's onto the national anthem, and then the fun will really begin.

A red carpet is rolled out by two volunteers and a wisp of a woman is led to centre ice, looking like some sort of gothic bride or…widow, maybe. Maybe it's a play on the team name. Her skin is sheet white and her hair is blonde, but it looks yellow in this light. How unfortunate, poor thing looks like she has jaundice.

"Ahem," she titters, and her voice is several octaves higher than appropriate for such a song. "O-oh, say, can you seeeeeeeeee—"

Light winces. Mogi (#61), standing to his right, surreptitiously nudges Light's arm. "Hey," he rumbles, "anyone give you trouble during warmup?"

"I've done this before," Light dismisses, holding his smile for the cameras.

"Yeah, that was preseason. This is the real thing, kid."

"I'm good. I can hold my own."

"That's not how this works," Mogi pushes.

Light sighs, anchoring himself on his stick. "It's nothing, probably."

"—Was so prooouuuuuuuuuuuuUudDddDdDdDd—"

"Did someone try something?"

"Mmn." Light rolls his tongue across his mouthguard, careful to hold it.

"Well now I know it wasn't nothin', if you're shuttin' up."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Light asks, offended, and Mogi just looks at him.

"Don't make me ask your Dad."

"Fine," Light concedes, irate. Sick to his stomach that the entire team has this one trump card they can use anytime against him. "One of the guys stick-tapped me."

He strategically says 'one of the guys' and not another word more. For good reason. Several, actually:

One.

He has to say something. The only thing worse than Mogi on his case would be his father, on the off chance he was even watching the warm-up.

Two.

There is an unspoken rule in the league—in every league, in probably every goddamn social game on the planet—don't snitch. If someone's got a problem with you, it's with you, and snaking your team on them does far more harm than good in the long run.

"—Who tapped you? Who was it?"

"Don't worry about it," Light spits through a smile, plenty worried about it. He's spent enough time on the ice to know that a stick-tap is the hockey equivalent of pistols at dawn.

"…Was it Lawliet?"

Light jerks, accidentally, and Mogi whips his head to face him. Apparently the lug is far more perceptive than he lets on—information Light ought to keep in his back pocket.

He doesn't respond.

"Lawliet?" Mogi gasps, fury in his brow. "For fuck's sake."

"Boys!" Coach Yagami hisses, none too pleased himself. He snaps a disapproving finger to his lips, gesturing for them to shut up, which Light is more than happy to do. Elated, even.

The game has yet to even start and Light's broken the cardinal rule, snitching on the guy who has it out for him. Even though Lawliet can't have it out for Light in the first place because he doesn't know Light, and Light didn't really even tell Mogi.

He wants to chew on his mouthguard. To take a sip of water. To relieve the tension in his cheeks from smiling so much. But that would be poor form. So he smiles, and smiles.

And smiles as the girl continues to butcher the American national anthem. Christ, is she still going?

He sneaks a glance at the opposing bench to properly size up the competition. All the New York guys look like they could be clones of each other. Puffed out chests, chins raised to the sky, jubilant in spite of not having the home advantage. Golden retrievers or just a line of blonde, patchy bearded pests, save for one.

Lawliet sticks out like a sore thumb.

"Oh, say does that star spangleddddddddd,"

He sways. Bored. Or emotionally detached. Drunk, possibly. It's distracting nonetheless. Against the wash of frozen blonde and blue eyed mannequins beside him, it's hard for Light not to stare.

Then, Lawliet stares back.

Light sucks in a breath, harsh and icy when it hits the back of his throat. It's cold in the arena when they're just standing like this.

He snaps his attention on the singer, pretending with every fibre in him that he's intently, enjoyably listening.

Lawliet doesn't let up. If anything, he's more obtusely gawking now that Light's not looking at him, and isn't it rude to stare? Especially when the person's noticed?

To his horror, Light realizes he's trembling, and holds his stick tightly. Is this really a call to arms? Was Mogi right to be concerned? Light is brilliant and prodigious and, to be fair, is having a great hair day—he can't say the same for Lawliet—but is that reason enough for such a summons?

"And the HOMEEEE,"

This may be the first time in history someone wished the American national anthem were longer.

"OFFFFF THEEEEEEE,"

Light swallows. Lawliet, in turn, smiles.

"BRRRRAAAAAVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEE!"

"Welcome back, boys," the referee says as everyone begins to take position, "good and clean, alright?"

Lawliet hunches over his stick, chewing on his mouthguard. His expression is both unsettling and unreadable. Light can feel his eyes on him as he skates out to centre ice.

No one else seems to be acting out of the ordinary, or even noticing the assault. If anything, spirits are high. Home advantage and all that.

Worry flutters in his fingers, clammy in his mitts; maybe Mogi's already told the guys that Lawliet might try something, and they're purposefully acting aloof to keep him off the scent.

No, he wouldn't do that to Light, would he?

Mogi's on his right, Light could check. Their other enforcer is on his left, a big guy who Light hasn't much interacted with yet, and truthfully doesn't plan to. It would only take a swift glance left or right to know if either of them are planning on setting the tone—that is to say, rocking Lawliet's shit—the second the puck drops. It would be so easy. They aren't subtle creatures. No one in hockey is.

But then again, if he looks anywhere but forward, there's a chance Lawliet will catch on with the way he's staring.

Light knows what really makes him a standout, a star. It isn't his finesse or his footwork. It isn't his speed or even his offensive instincts. It's that every person on the rink is always showing their hand. It's always been that way, on every rink, as far back as he can remember.

So Light risks a quick glance to his right, where a few of the guys are snarling at Lawliet. There it is, his suicide note, written in the faces of his supposed teammates.

He darts his eyes back, takes a breath, and gets into position.

"Yagami, was it?" Lawliet asks, voice deadened, like his appearance.

Light holds a firm smile and gives a subtle nod.

Lawliet's mouthguard squelches in turn. Bright blue against the pale pink of his lips, the arena fluorescents bounce off where it's most shiny and wet.

"First game, hm?"

Light swallows. "Actually, my—"

"Oh, of course," Lawliet interrupts, "your father. Soichiro Yagami, hockey prodigy. First generation immigrant from Japan. NHL record holder." His words shoot out in a rushed, gravelly mumble. "You've had your fair share of ice time on a national stage, of sorts."

Light grips his stick tight.

As Lawliet talks, his eyes dart between Light and the home bench, where his Dad is standing, proud.

"After I wipe the floor with you," he says, dropping his tone, so low that Light realizes he has to lean forward on his stick to hear, "tell me which of us makes the better babysitter."

"A'right, boys," the referee slides in between them, "good n' clean."

Light smiles wide, caging the disasterous something behind his teeth that makes him want to tear Lawliet to fucking shreds. The referee stretches out his arm, puck in hand. It draws a net between them.

"You ready?" The ref asks Light, specifically, and God does he want to tear the ref apart too. This one's got a familiar face, maybe a friend of his dad's. Someone with one of those painfully ordinary American faces and equally ordinary American names to match.

Light taps his stick emphatically to the ice and gives a quick, approving nod.

"Lawliet, right?" Light asks, eyes big and fluttering and safe under the watchful eyes of a third party.

Lawliet cocks his head to the side. Prick must love the sound of his own name.

"Put your mouth guard in, would ya?"

"Mm?"

"I'd hate to break your teeth."

A bout of advice, player to player. Not even something that falls on the ref's radar. But in the approximately the 0.56 seconds it takes for the puck to leave the ref's hand and hit the ice, Lawliet reacts to the whole charade with a grin that so distressingly joyful that Light's stomach drops. He's never had that reaction to a petty chirp before.

And then the puck hits the ice. It's time. Time for Light Yagami to show the world what he's made of.

The horn blares.

With two goals scored on New York, for a total of New Jersey - 2, New York - 0, it is the end of the first period.

And Light is furious.

"Holy shit, Light!" Yamamoto (#17) cheers, whaling on his back with his mitts. "Two goals! TWO goals! That was fuckin' incredible!"

"Thanks," he beams back, disingenuously. Forcing his lips into a curt upturn. They stay that way for the entirety of the march to the locker room. In that time, he suffers blow after blow and doesn't tell Yamamoto to fuck off even once.

One by one, they spill in and the locker room descends into somewhat familiar chaos.

"Two goals in the first five minutes! That's like, gotta be a rookie record or something," Mogi surmises, "pretty impressive, Light. Maybe you'll get a hat trick."

Incredible. Impressive. Extraordinary. For a rookie. That's all anyone's said to him for the last seven minutes, is how great Light's first period ever is going…for a rookie. Rookie. Another shovel of shit on the pile that Light has to work around to come out on top. The magic word on everyone's lips.

Except his father, of course—one thing about Soichiro, he never counts his chickens.

"Boys," Soichiro hollers, "listen up."

The guys crane their necks toward their fearless leader. Light doesn't. The tape on the blade of his stick is wrecked from the first period and he's only got a couple of minutes to redo it.

"We're leading this thing, now. But the New York boys are shifty. They're gonna try anything and everything to trip you up from here on out. Don't let them."

He tugs on his tape. Once, around. Twice. Three times.

"Mogi," Soichiro calls, stern.

"Yeah, coach?"

"Good work getting between Light and Lawliet. He's probably been trying to spook him 'cause he's a rookie."

Mogi nods, two steps ahead of what his dad's only just noticing. Light grits his teeth.

Four, five, six times around.

"You've all done a good job keeping them on their toes," Soichiro acknowledges, hands on his hips still like the lot of them are in trouble. "Keep it up. And Light?"

Everyone in the locker room snaps their attention on him. Seven. Eight. Nine. He's almost finished with his blade. "Yeah, coach?"

"Second line is going out. You're benched for second."

"What?!"

"We're wasting too much energy keeping Lawliet off you."

The room explodes. The younger guys are barking over each other, the older guys are barking at the younger guys to stay in line. Light's stick is on the ground, and the tape is tangled all over itself. It's a goddamn mess. He has to start over.

"Why?" Mogi asks, more confused than anything else, but Light cringes.

"What did you just ask me?" His dad's voice rumbles through the earth, the terrifying calm before the inevitable storm that Soichiro usually reserves for bad grades. The room settles. Not much, but enough so that Light can scramble to get his stick. He has eighty two seconds to get it properly taped up now.

"Light's killing it out there, coach," Yamamoto uselesssly points out. "Why bench him?"

And if there were sand for Light to bury his head in, he'd do it now. Soichiro and his never-ending lists of nevers. He never likes having to justify his actions, or repeat himself. Light can't remember the last time he's had to do both.

"As I said," Soichiro inhales, "we're wasting valuable energy on keeping Lawliet and his goons off Light, when we should be focusing on the puck."

Aizawa, the assistant coach, steps in, none too eager to comfort anyone. At least he's never yelled. "What Coach Yagami means to say, is he and I were discussing our options," he says, flipping a couple pages on his clipboard, "and it looks like the Scouts are saving their best guys for later. They're winding us up just to knock us out in third, when they know we're tired. Mogi."

"Yes, coach?"

"You aren't going to have any steam in you come third if you keep chasing Lawliet like a greased pig. That's why we're benching him."

"We need to be ready," Soichiro adds. "We need to stay focused."

"This is ridiculous," Yamamoto cries.

"No, coach is right," Mogi says, dropping head between his legs. His cheeks flushed red, his breaths long and laboured. "I'm doing my best, but, Lawliet. Fuckin'. He's so fuckin' fast. I can barely keep up."

"So don't," Soichiro demands, all venom, "and play the fucking game."

When he storms out of the locker room, he takes all the air with him.

Second period is nothing short of brutal.

"At least my neck is getting a workout, since we can't hold the puck for more than ten goddamn seconds," Aizawa says to Soichiro.

Yamamoto takes it, and it looks like Aizawa is about to eat his words, until Lawliet snakes by in a blur and swipes it.

"COME THE FUCK ON," Mogi bellows, slamming his bare fist against the boards.

Light reels him back to the bench with a curt pull of his shoulder.

"Only your fuckin' dad can make a 2-0 feel like shit."

"Yeah," Light exhales, "he's a prick sometimes."

"FUCK, FUCKING, OFF!" Mogi screams.

As Light suspected, The Scouts switch their strategy. Most of their heavy lifters are still benched, and the guys on the ice are ruthless.

Going down for a nap, Night-Light?

Where's your baby bottle?

You gonna cry?

Admittedly, some of the chirps are more creative than others. But their strategy is obviously working. Light darts his eyes to the scoreboard, where a big, fat 2 - 2 stares back at him, mockingly. He tightens his hands into fists.

Not three minutes in, one of the blonde monstrosities gets a breakaway. Their starting goaltender launches into a standard butterfly, ready to take it, and screams.

The replay doesn't yield much, just a mess of bodies crowding the camera, but it looked like a groin injury from how much help the guy needed just to get back on his feet.

The backup goalie is subbed in and this is where Light's stomach really gets into a twist. He's a pudgyish, talkative type whose always trying to 'just lighten things up' during practice.

His fingernails dig into his palms and he looks back at his father. They lock into a heated glare, and the whole thing might as well be a screaming match. The only thing that breaks it is Mogi's yelling.

"MATSUDA! BACK IN THE FUCKING NET! JESUS CHRIST!"

There is nothing for Light to do but sit on his hands and watch the carnage.

"Aww, look," one of the opposing enforcers chirps, "it's past Yagami's bedtime." And it's not just him. All the New York guys are mock-crying and wiping pretend tears from their eyes every time they pass the bench.

It's grating, but Light is resilient. Full stop. End of sentence. So he endures the taunts, all through second period and well into third and doesn't falter once.

There's five minutes left on the clock when the referee blows the whistle.

"Okay, we're sending you in," Aizawa says to Light, and Light looks at both of them quizzically. His Dad's rolling his tongue over his teeth, deftly avoiding eye contact.

Oh, so this was Aizawa's call.

Light jumps over the boards, skates up to the end zone, and gets into position for the face-off without so much as a word. Pointedly ignoring the mock-weeping from New York, to boot.

There are a million thoughts rolling through his mind; why is his dad making such poor judgement calls? How did Aizawa make this call? Who in god's name did Matsuda suck off to get here?

Light stares through the ice into white nothingness, until a pair of CCM JetSpeed FT6 Pros skate into view—one of the most expensive pairs on the market. Honestly, overrated, if you know what you're doing—and Light's breath catches in his throat. The white nothingness seems to turn to static. A trend, apparently, when he's standing in front of Lawliet.

"Welcome back," he says, monotone. "I missed you."

"Did you now?" Light asks, hiding his disdain.

"Very much so."

Light itches, eager to get on with it. When he looks back, he sees the opposing linesman is taking his sweet fucking time getting to the end zone.

"It must be irritating, hm?" Lawliet asks. His voice is low and more airy than earlier. He's wearing his mouthguard proper, so that must have something to do with it.

"I don't know what you're referring to."

"Sure you do."

Light sucks on his mouthguard, careful not to fall in whatever trap is being set out for him.

"What you are," Lawliet purrs, "how they're treating you?"

"And what's that?" Light asks, bending his knees and taking formation. Lawliet follows.

Their faces are much closer than before. Close enough that Light can see the streaks of darkness under Lawliet's eyes aren't makeup, but remnants of horrific sleep hygiene.

"A prodigy. They're calling you the future me."

Light involuntarily jerks. His hands are trembling under his mitts. He's nothing like this guy.

Lawliet looks like shit. His hair is tangled. His sallow cheeks are both sunken and speckled ruby red in that way pale faces tend to when they're freezing cold. Overall, he looks like a perfect corpse, which is fitting, because Light is going to beat him, kill him, and dance on his fucking grave.

Light taps his chest in warning. More specifically, he taps the giant KILLERS scrawl on his jersey.

"Is that a threat?" Lawliet croons, mouth stuffed with rubber. But lo, a linesman appears and once again divides them in two before Light can describe all the ways he's going to pick him apart; he concedes with a nod, almost imperceptibly.

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

The puck drops and Light thinks that's the end of it. But then, like lightning cracking through scorching earth, one word falls from his lips.

"—Snitch."

Blood is never as red as it is on the ice.

It's still bright in the palm of his hand, slowly soaking into the wet rag the medic gave him. But it doesn't have that inexplicable, violent luminosity. Lawliet sits directly to his right in the adjoining penalty box, where a big, purple bruise is just beginning to blossom under his right eye.

In his periphery, Light can feel him staring. Hell if he's going to give him the satisfaction of checking this time.

He watches from the penalty box as Mogi scores the game-winning goal. The guys race out onto the ice and dog pile each other, and the door to the box opens. When he's freed from prison, Matsuda yanks Light into the pile and congratulates him for who fucking knows what.

"Your first game, Light! We won!"

Despite the split lip, he paints on a smile for the adoring masses of Newark and hugs Matsuda back. It's uncomfortable, but lucky for Light, he is quite comfortable being uncomfortable.

One, two, nineteen handshakes later, he and Lawliet come to meet for a final time on the ice in the handshake line.

"Good game," Light parrots for the umteenth time, extending a hand.

"Was it?"

"What?"

"You didn't get your hat-trick," Lawliet replies.

"You didn't make your 300th goal."

"No, I didn't," he says, taking Light's bloodied hand. "A draw, then."

One hand does the shaking, the other comes up and grabs the scruff of his neck, drawing him close. His hands are far hotter than Light imagined they would be. "God hath given you one face, Light Yagami," he whispers. Breath humid on his ear. "I'd much love to see the other."

"You’re insane," Light spits.

Lawliet pulls his hand back, unaffected. It's sticky with Light's blood. He turns it over and trails a finger down the patchy redness left behind. Staring at it with a deeply unsettling intensity.

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be." He smirks, barely. "I'll get mine."

"Um. Looking forward to it," Light placates—because a) the referee and linesmen have suddenly materialized. And b) he truly does not know how else to reply to something so bizarrely threatening.

"3-2 for the New Jersey Killers. What a f*****g game!" Ryuk bellows, smiling ear to ear and chomping on an apple. "Can you believe it, Remmy girl?"

Rem stares pointedly at the camera, body stiff as a board as she clenches her clipboard.

"Certainly a first for Light Yagami, rookie centreman for the New Jersey Killers. His coach can't be too happy right about now about the scuffle." Ryuk says.

Rem chides, "let's remember it was Lawliet to throw the first punch."

"And the last. Coach Watari's got his hands full with that one," Ryuk chuckles. "Did'ya see the shiner on Lawly though? Yagami might just have a career in MMA if this whole hockey thing doesn't work out."

"Lawliet and the Scouts are headed to Edmonton, Canada tomorrow night. Hopefully the rumours are true, and our boys from New York are in for more polite treatment."

"Edmonton folks are f*****' gems. And really, what's a New Jersey, New York game without a few scuffs and scrapes?"

"Got me there, Ryuk."

Ryuk beams. "One thing is for sure, I think it's safe to say all eyes are going to be on New York's next game against New Jersey, on our turf. I can hardly wait to see those two duke it out."

"I think you can manage ten days," she delivers, deadpanned as she stares down the camera.

"Well in the meantime," Ryuk adds, two fingers on his in-ear monitor, "I hear that both teams and their respective coaches are taking questions now."

"Alright, then. Thank you for tuning into Coach's Corner. Let's throw it to Raye with the post-game."

Chapter Text

There's a quiet dread in Light's stomach that's been rolling since they got off the ice. It's an unfamiliar, bodily kind of swooping sensation (and an unfortunate one at that) considering he is about to give his first ever post-game press hit on the national stage.

Coach Aizawa and the most of the guys opted not to talk to the reporters. Light doesn't have that choice. It's his day, after all, and he'd ended it in a wildly unpredicted manner. Everyone must have their piece.

The press chairs are hard and plastic, as are the smiles of the buzzards, perched behind their cordless microphones and in-ear monitors. Mercifully, Soichiro says he will be broaching the first few questions. "Not that I think you can't hold your own," he says.

Of course he can hold his own. If all the world's a stage, Light has already put in his ten thousand hours. Tonight just…yielded some unexpected hiccups. Which reminds him, after this interview he has to replace the bandage on one of said hiccups before it bleeds completely through the gauze.

"Let me set the tone," Soichiro utters in clipped Japanese. "Jump in when you're ready."

With that, Soichiro straightens up in his seat, adjusts his tie, and then it's off to the races. The starting gun fires with a cough and an urgently raised hand.

"You there, in the front."

Soichiro points to a man with piercing blue eyes and a shitty side part in his hair. He sounds like he might have a cold.

"Raye Penber. TSN. My first question, Mr. Yagami, is how are you feeling after this win?"

Soichiro responds bluntly. "I knew they could do it."

"And, how is Ukita doing?"

"That, I'm unsure of at this juncture. We're just hoping it's nothing serious."

Light doesn't know Ukita well. What he does know is that groin injuries can often be the kiss of death, especially for goaltenders. They're slow to heal, high on the pain scale, and susceptible to reinjury. He's careful not to let that thought show.

"But it could be," Penber pauses, "serious, that is?"

"We'll know more soon," Soichiro says, solemnly ending it there.

"New York has a great offensive, but it's been called a bit of a dirty one, too," Penber pivots, "was it surprising to see your son take on Lawliet in the third period?"

"As for—"

"—Does he have anger issues? Has it been a problem in the past? Do you foresee that being a problem over the season?"

"Woah, woah, woah. Anger issues, Mr. Penber?" Soichiro parrots, shaking his head in an amused manner. "This is hockey. And if there's one thing that can be said about my son, it's that he'll do anything to support his team. Even when it isn't written on our whiteboard."

"Sorry." Light shrugs with a lopsided smile. One million cameras snap their approval.

His cheeks burn from just how much he's had to smile. What's more, the bruise forming on his bottom lip stings like a motherfucker. Hopefully no one can tell.

He hadn't planned on fighting Lawliet, of course. Not that the reporters or the public at large care about intent, really, or lack therof; so long as it's violent, men can hurt each other as much as they please in this industry.

"And, what would you say to New York, if they were watching right now? Any parting words before the next game?"

"If New York wants to try anything funny next week, I'd just like to remind them to look at tonight's score," Soichiro says, hiding his sneer behind a sip of water.

Raye holds a pen up. "A question for Yagami junior."

"—Light's fine," he interrupts, a tad too quick for his own liking. His hands clench and unclench under the table.

"Light, it's nice to meet you. Welcome to the NHL."

"Your name was Raye, was it?" Light inquires, sugary sweet. He's got to commit that name to memory, in the unfortunate event junior ends up sticking. Hopeful—for Raye's sake—that it doesn't.

"Yes, um. Interesting name," Raye says, "how are you feeling?"

"Am I allowed to say hungry?" Light confesses, chuckling, and the room chuckles along with him. They're practically eating out of the hand he's now holding over his stomach. "But seriously, I feel grateful. It's truly an honor to skate on the ice I grew up watching on tv. It's a dream come true."

Soichiro gives his shoulder a quick squeeze. That must be some kind of record.

"Speaking of watching on tv," Raye prods, "Lawliet. Were you a fan?"

"Was I a fan?"

"I just mean," Raye laughs, half-heartedly, "I wouldn't be anymore, that's for sure, if he did that to my face."

Light pauses to gather his thoughts before leaning into the mic, swallowing the red hot rage behind his teeth. The reporters in tandem lean in too, practically foaming out the mouth in anticipation of what's to come.

"I have a lot of respect for the guy," Light says, flatly. He has no respect for Lawliet, and it is heaps more than what he feels for Raye right now.

The room erupts into a big, hulking laugh. A laugh you'd hear at a sleepover…if you got caught wetting the bed.

"Look," Light nips, "every team has a way of doing things. I don't pretend to know everything. Imagine if I did? I just got here." His eyes are big and wet and wonderous when he runs a hand through his hair. Smile wide, charismatic—and whiter than a goddamn toilet seat—he is the picture of humility. One of the reporters even starts fanning her chest. That's more fucking like it. "…But, I don't have it out for anyone. I don't wanna hurt anybody."

"And if Lawliet does?" Raye skewers.

"He is entitled to his play style. I'm gonna focus on the five more games ahead of us," Light concludes with a quick smile. "Thank you for your time—"

"—What if Lawliet's banking on that?" Raye pushes, even though Soichiro is already rooting for his keys in his jacket.

"Sorry?"

"He considers you a rival. Do you consider him one?"

"Don't answer that. He's trying to bait you," Soichiro orders harshly in Japanese, covering the mic with his hand. When he turns back, several more hands are waving now.

"I think that's enough, here, everyone—" Soichiro announces, and then begins to usher Light out of the press room. The big, commercial cameras turn off, and the millions of smaller, digital ones rush in. He is fresh meat in piranha infested waters, and Raye just gave them a taste for blood:

"WHAT HAPPENED DURING WARM UPS? WHY DOES LAWLIET HAVE IT OUT FOR YOU?"

"ARE YOU SCARED TO SEE HIM IN NEW YORK?"

"WHAT DOES THE REST OF YOUR TEAM THINK ABOUT THE RIVALRY?"

"DID YOU HEAR THAT LAWLIET'S JAW IS BROKEN? ANY COMMENT?"

Light feels his sweater being pulled in all directions while he is simultaneously being shoved towards the conference doors. It's mayhem; he couldn't get a word in if he wanted to, and good god, does he not want to.

Mayhem, through the doors, out of the building, even walking to the car. A short, stubby man and his indie camera crew pop out from the bushes and begin their pursuit. "Yagami!" he shouts, running as fast as his little legs will carry him, "great game! Anything to say about the shiner you gave Lawliet tonight?"

It takes a beat longer than normal for the car doors to unlock, and Light is pressed up against it with nowhere to go. The swarm descends upon him. If he doesn't say something they might actually eat him alive.

"Uh," he pants, and he can feel the pop of the passenger door open. "Sorry."

He's yanked into the passenger seat before he can say another word, and then they are tearing out of the parking lot. Neither of them even have their seatbelts on.

"Light, those people are vultures."

"I know how to talk to the press."

"That wasn't the press you just talked to. Those people are, are, they're sick is what they are." Soichiro adjusts his rear view mirror, displeased, but beyond that sounds entirely unaffected. "You're lucky no one is following us home."

Two missed exits off the highway later, his father heaves a lazy sigh, but his knuckles are still white on the steering wheel. His posture has been rigid the whole drive; like the little table hockey dolls Light used to play with as a kid.

Glued to metal rods to keep them in line, the plastic figurines could move only forward and back, and swivel only left or right. Light would get a harsh slap on the tops of his hands for breaking them off the rods and playing with them in the bath. But Dad, it's boring the normal way, he would whine. And it was.

They drive the rest of the way home in silence.

"Light."

"Yeah?"

"Did you call your mother?"

"It's late, I'll call her tomorrow."

Soichiro doesn't push, even though it's only ten. Mom and Sayu are probably still watching their shows. Instead, he hollers up the stairs for Light to air out his jersey, and then heads off to bed.

Most of their conversations are like this, barking like dogs between a flight of stairs. They're renting a townhouse just south of Ridgewood, a family home that rivals their own back in Ottawa in size and serenity. Fit for four. It's anyone's guess why Soichiro picked it.

Light sits in bed and scans Sportsnet and TSN on his laptop for any articles relating to certain hockey players and broken jaws. He stops when a picture of his face pops up.

'Sorry for the Shiner: Northern Hospitality for Southpaw L. Lawliet'

"Wonder-kid Light Yagami (NJ) wasted no time getting acquainted with L. Lawliet (NY) in tonight's game. The Canadian rookie…"

He clicks away, soured from this reporter's verbiage. They really are vultures.

He clicks another.

"Light Yagami's debut has sparked excitement among New Jersey fans, but stats experts are saying it's too soon to tell if he's a good investment or not for the team. When he faced off against L. Lawliet…"

"Good god," he sighs, backing out of that article, too.

'Light Yagami says he doesn't like getting into fights.'

This one is just a carousel of different high-res photos contradicting that statement entirely. In the thumbnail, Light's reeling his fist back and Lawliet's bracing for the punch. Each photo is more gruesome than the last, as if to undermine everything Light said during his press hit. In the last photo, bloodied, Lawliet is smiling ear to ear. Jaw entirely unbroken.

That's just poor journalism.

He selects another article.

'Yagami v. Lawliet: Scouting a Killer'

And then another.

And another.

More of the same.

His eyes begin to sting. He can't find ten words on his performance tonight. No rookie spotlight. No postgame stats breakdown to be found.

The fight overshadows everything like a dark, cancerous cloud. It makes him wonder if Lawliet's propulsion to stardom was similar, considering he's actually the goon, here.

Which gives him an idea.

He types L Lawliet into the search bar.

The most recent post is a video, published an hour ago. With Raye Penber's name attached to it.

"Raye, here with the post-game, and we're interviewing head coach, Watari of the New York Scouts. Good to be back, isn't it?"

"That it is," Coach Watari agrees.

"Glad to hear it. That was one hell of a game."

"Killers' gave us a run for our money, certainly. We'll get them next time."

"So, Light Yagami."

Light scoffs at the screen, but keeps watching. Watari sighs, almost pained, and Light leans in.

"New Jersey picked well. He's most certainly a killer."

"You think so?" Raye asks, surprised, in his best imitation of someone actually qualified for this job.

"These boys are under immense pressure. Yagami showed a tremendous amount of confidence tonight. I can give credit where it is due. His father should be proud."

"Speaking of pressure, that fight," Raye pushes, "holy shit, huh?"

"Are you interested in asking me a question about hockey, Mr. Penber?"

Light snorts.

"I just wanna know, y'know, from a coach's perspective. What do you think? And how's Lawliet's face looking? Can we get a word with him?"

"I can see this interview has reached its end."

Raye deflates. "Is he still here?"

Coach Watari exits the frame gracefully, only a hint of annoyance on his face, if any.

"Wait!" Raye hollers, and the camera is going in and out of focus, now. They're trying to keep pace. For an old guy, Watari's footwork is fast.

"Mr. Penber," Watari projects in the big, empty halls of the arena. Patience long worn thin after god knows how many of these interviews he's done over the years. "It is wise to set our sights on Edmonton. We are leaving this loss here, where we found it."

"One more question—"

"—Goodnight, Mr. Penber."

The video ends abruptly.

Curiousity sated, and then some, Light resigns himself to bed. Sure, the media might not recognize his brilliance, but at least one of the most revered coaches in the league does.

Prodigy-turned-official-player. And a killer, at that.

…Milestone complete.

This is the same bed he slept in the night before. The same loose t-shirt and boxers from the dryer. But Light is a different man, tonight. He is falling asleep as a professional centreman in the NHL, and he falls asleep quickly.

For the first time since before he can remember, he dreams of nothing.

The Killers go on to play Vancouver, and they win. Light scores three goals. Three. His first official hat-trick—and not a single scrap to boot. The guys offer to take him out for drinks to celebrate, but he politely declines. No room for such things. They're on a win streak now.

They fly to Dallas. Then home to battle Florida. The days blur together after that. If he isn't chasing the puck, it's his macros. Pulling out his food scale at gas stations and fast food counters, trying to hit his daily protein goal.

Before he knows it, they have six wins under their belt.

Tonight, Light sits on a hard hotel floor, rolling out the knots in his calves while he watches a replay of the New York-Edmonton game. Not that he really wants to see it. More force of habit. Keeps him in the zone.

In the first two minutes of play, Lawliet scores his three hundredth goal.

As a kid, Light had no real interest in analyzing player stats, or collecting cards from sponsored cereal boxes to trade with kids at school. He didn't have a favourite player. Not even a favourite team, truth be told.

Light strictly stuck to watching games his dad played. That, and Coach's Corner. Ryuk Ohba wore funny clothes, and Rem Obata always gave him shit for it. They talked at each other like his parents did growing up, but it was funny when they did it. It still is funny.

Light sits in the guest locker room of Madison Square Garden, watching them talk at each other right now. If he ever gets the chance, he's going to ask where Ryuk gets his blazers from.

"Evenin'." Ryuk nods politely to Rem on the screen. "You're looking lovely tonight, Rem."

"And you're looking…red."

Ryuk beams, running a hand through his black, scraggly hair. He stands tall in a stark white blazer, save for a fat splat of fake blood on the front. Paired with a white shirt and black tie to pull the whole thing together.

Light knows that Ryuk only wears the the more whacky outfits on special occasions; apparently tonight is one of those nights.

"Subliminaly communicating any particular allegiances tonight, Ryuk?"

"What, the red?" Ryuk bears his teeth to the camera, delighted. "I'm just hoping for a bloodbath."

"Hello, Light."

Light masks his annoyance behind a cobra stretch. Head up, arms straight. He needs to focus not on Lawliet right now but on New York as a whole. They have the home advantage, plus the additional advantage of not sleeping on a goddamn bus the night before.

"Light?"

His tendons whine, aching, and Light breathes into the stretch looking to relieve the tension. Sore from overexertion, he presses his groin into the ice floor a little harder, a little deeper. Ukita's out for the entire month on a grade two adductor tear.

"Light?"

After this he'll relax in a kneeling position. From the nape of his neck to just above his tailbone, the cords of muscle protest angrily.

"Liiight?"

"You're supposed to be warming up," Light bites, reaching out to touch his toes.

"I am warm."

"Good for you," Light huffs, going into a seated hamstring stretch, and that seems to settle that.

This first week has felt more like watching a world tour than being on a hockey team; the guys stop in at every bar and strip joint in every city, and the team is suffering for it. It makes for shit sleep, shit practice, and shit performance. Light is the only one who hasn't made himself vulnerable—

"—Light-kun."

"What the hell did you just call me?" Light barks.

Lawliet pouts. "Is it not customary to use honorifics when talking to, or referring to others in a conversation?"

"In Japanese," Light grunts. "It's offensive when Westerners do it."

Cat like, Lawliet smiles. "Light-kun shouldn't assume."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I am one quarter Japanese."

"Sure you are," Light seethes, resigned from warming up altogether.

He straightens up, stealing a glance of the face across him. The slight almond shape of his eyelids provide a bit of racial ambiguity, but the rest of his face is pure English. Acne scars abound and a set of teeth only a mother could love.

Light moves his arm, and then his focus intently shifts to the way Lawliet copies him move for move into a seated rotator cuff stretch. He makes himself a perfect mirror across the centre line.

"Stop copying me."

"Light-kun says I should warm up."

"Yeah, but—"

"Light-kun is mad."

"I'm not mad, I'm just stretching."

"…Which is interesting."

"No it isn't—"

"—For several reasons," Lawliet ponders, mouthguard flopping out of his mouth. "He explicitly requests to be called by his first name, which is a colloquial practice in the West. It is nearly impossible to convey any sense of respect towards him. But he does wish to be respected."

"Whatever you say."

"But why does he hold disdain for the Yagami name?"

"I d—"

"—And why is he lying about it?"

Light flinches.

Lawliet grins around his thumb, menacingly. So much for Light inuring himself to his psycho bullshit.

He stretches his arm until the familiar pain of sobbing ligaments drowns out all other sensation, and now the adrenaline has a place to go.

"I'm sorry if you think you've done something to upset me. I'm not mad. And I do prefer Light, please," he says with a small, polite smile.

Lawliet hums, unsatisfied, and tugs on his lower lip. "Perhaps Light-kun does not prefer it at all. Perhaps he resents the Yagami name for fear of the shadow it casts upon him. So he simply must go by Light. If that is the case, well," Lawliet pauses, a hint of schadenfreude in his voice, "…the irony isn't lost on me."

Light's eyes snap on Lawliet, mouth in an open snarl. They both shuck their gloves.

"—Boys," Coach Watari calls from the players' tunnel, and Lawliet visibly jolts. "Enough."

Coach Watari's voice doesn't carry, but it does command with an unusual authority. Lawliet's hands transform from eager fists to timid rabbits, running to catch his gloves. Hunched, like a child caught cheating on his math test.

Light's had more than enough. When he himself steps off the ice and sits down in the locker room, he's ready to eviscerate New York.

"You've been watching me on tv," Light skewers, prodding back at the stick that's aggressively tapping his. The referee draws a line between Light and Lawliet at the centre line.

"Mostly reading, actually. Congratulations on the six game streak," he nips with another, more pronounced clack of his stick against Light's.

"Don't you mean seven?"

"Mm?"

The puck drops, and Light sweeps it.

"Thirty seconds left," Soichiro says, "make it count."

He's trying. But Lawliet has been nipping at Light's heels all game. For the first time since he became a professional hockey player, they've gone into overtime: an additional five minute sudden-death period. First goal on net wins. If no one scores—heaven forfuckingbid—the game defaults to a shoot out.

The scoreboard still sits at 0-0. Light is drenched in sweat, but so is Lawliet. Neither have managed to score on one another, but now with twenty seconds left and the puck in Light's possession, Lawliet is close on his tail.

This is his very last chance before they have to go to shootouts.

"Tired, Light-kun?" Lawliet chirps behind him.

"Nope," he pants back, driving forward as fast as he can. He's on a breakaway. His skates cut harsh lines into the ice floor. The crowd is going ballistic.

Toe to toe, they barrel down the rink. If Light doesn't make a decision, fast, he's going to send himself and New York's goalie through the net and straight into the stratosphere. A right-winger appears on his right—a threat, but too far back to be an immediate one—and Lawliet is crawling up his left side. If he moves right, he's right where they want him.

If he pushes just a hair's breath faster than Lawliet, he can get past him on the left and brake. He'll be completely open to score.

It's a risk, but it's his only chance.

Light throws himself into it. He carves a deep line into the ice with his right leg and veers as far and fast left as his body will allow.

And the rest seems to play out in slow motion.

Accidents always do.

He hears it before even realizing what's happening. All of Madison Square Garden rises to their feet in shock and anticipation.

There's just no time to brace for it. Lawliet gets the same idea, and they both push into each other in an effort to outpace each other. What's worse, Light's skate catches on a deep divot in the ice.

And then he's crashing into the boards and Lawliet is crashing into him. They slam into the glass and fall into a heap of frenzied limbs.

"Get the fuck off me." Light shoves the body on top of him, but Lawliet's much more solid than he looks.

"Careful, Light-kun," he jeers, wincing in pain as he rolls to face him, "keep up with the potty mouth and I'll have to wash it out with soap."

This time, it's Light to throw off his gloves first. But before he even can throw the first punch, Lawliet wraps his hand around it, expectantly. "You can do better than that, can't you?"

That's the thing. He doesn't know if he can. Lawliet's grip is strong, his body is heavy, and Light has already been running on empty all game.

"Mm, I guess I am just playing with Yagami Sr.'s shadow after all."

"I'll fucking kill you," Light spits, reeling his fist back and forcing it to meet Lawliet's jaw with all he's got. Maybe this time, someone will actually write that article.

"That's more like it," Lawliet whispers, gleefully.

The referee blows the whistle.

"New Jersey, number eighty nine! New York, number eighty two! Five for fighting!"

The referee's voice bellows out over the loudspeaker. The crowd is uproarious. They're ripped apart by their teammates, each horror stricken by the realization.

They're defaulting to a shoot-out.

That is to say their respective teams are; Light and Lawliet are going straight to the penalty box.

Chapter Text

Picture this.

Eight days a week, every waking hour of your life is dedicated to hockey. Your meals, your sleep schedule, your social life—joke's on you, you don't get one—revolve around the art of gameplay. Your body is no longer a body at all, but a machine, and it is expected to perform complicated manoeuvres at breakneck speed.

Come game day, you and your team fight tooth and nail for sixty five minutes; only to have to sit your ass on a cold, hard bench, and watch one another take turns shooting on net. You get three tries. The team with the most shots on goal at the end wins.

The goaltenders have it the hardest. They have to correctly guess where the shooter is going to go, and intercept the shot. Every time. One wrong move, and it could cost you the whole game.

In short, shoot outs are fucking terrible.

The only thing worse than participating in one, Light decides, is having to watch from the penalty box. And the only thing worse than that is having to deal with Lawliet watching him watch from the penalty box.

Lawliet treats everything like a joke. Even now, in time out, he's managed to sneak a packet of gummy fruit snacks into his gear and is munching away like he's at the goddamn movies.

Light's knuckles throb under his mitts, tinged pink from colliding with Lawliet's jaw. He flexes them, aching to punch. To rip the package of snacks out of his hand and shove each one down his throat himself.

Across the rink, Coach Aizawa and Soichiro bicker behind a clipboard, looking like they want to throw a few punches themselves. From the outside, it just looks like a conversation is being had between two friends—two friends, with two small sticks shoved up their asses. But Light knows better.

Aizawa stands straight as an arrow. He's raking a hand over his chin, anxiously. Mouthing the word no over and over, like the twentieth time'll be the charm.

When Soichiro sends Mogi vaulting over the bench, Light understands all too well the source of the arguing. Having Mogi represent them in the shoot out is…a choice.

The guys, oblivious to the quarrel unfolding, slam their sticks into the ground behind the players' bench in support. Yamamoto is screaming his head off. Unfortunately, he's competing with the battle cries of around twenty thousand New Yorkers.

"C'mon, buddy," Coach Aizawa claps. "Bring home the win."

"Let's fucking GOOOOOO!!!" Yamamoto screams.

Mogi skates up to centre ice, pointedly ignoring the bench.

The referee drops the puck.

And before it's even begun, Light knows exactly how it ends.

Mogi's an enforcer, a tough guy. All power, no finesse. As Mogi closes the distance between him at the net, he leads with the heel of his blade. Not the toe. Good for power, not precision. His body's already in a (telling) antic to the right, before he ultimately decides to shoot left. Coach Aizawa buries his face in his hands.

Predictably, the goaltender makes the save.

It is February 28th, 1999. Light Yagami is ten years old.

"Double digits," Dad says, stepping into his leather boots. "Pretty cool."

Light looks at his feet, bundled up in his own winter boots. They aren't stylish like Dad's. They're big and clunky and take too long to do up. Dad says he can't get a new pair until he grows out of them.

"Yeah."

"You don't sound very excited."

After school, they're going to the Palladium to watch the Ottawa Reapers play the Toronto Bells. It will be his first time watching from a box. Mom says it's costing Dad a lot of money.

"Do up your coat-all the way up. It's a cold one today."

"Duh," Light chirps back, with all the arrogance of a proper prebuescent fifth grader on the honour-roll. What does his father expect? It's -31° outside, for god's sake.

"Duh," his father parrots, throwing in the towel on the attitude this morning. "Who are you bringing to the game?"

"I don't want to have a party."

Dad puts a hand on his hip. "Parties are how kids make friends. Do it up."

"I don't want to make friends," Light protests, craning his neck so the zipper doesn't catch on his chin.

"Sure you do."

"I don't like any of them."

"You don't have to like them. But it's important they like you."

"Why?"

Mom runs in with a coffee for Dad. It's in a big thermos that barely fits in the car's cup holder. But he doesn't have to wear mittens, so it isn't a problem. "Here you go, honey," she says, softly, and Light looks away when they kiss.

"Oh, my little man. Already so grown up," Mom says. "Be good today."

"He's always good," Dad says.

They're always going on and on about schoolyard politics and being good: yes please, no thank you, I'm sorry. Always saying one way or another that being the new kid is bad for some reason. If it's so bad, they shouldn't have moved houses.

"Dad, why?" Light asks again.

"You'll understand when you're older," Dad says, tone darkening. "Pick nine kids. Be waiting on the curb at three."

"But I don't want to."

"Light," Dad nearly shouts, and isn't that just the worst thing to be called at seven in the morning? Light looks at Mom for help, but she's already running up the stairs with a laundry basket full of conveniently unfolded clothes.

Dad dashes to the kitchen, and when he returns with a brown paper bag he vigorously thrusts it against Light's chest. "We're running late. I'm going to heat up the car. Put that in your bag."

But Light doesn't even want to do that. He's already zipped up his coat and got his mittens on underneath said coat and the zipper on his backpack is harder to grab than the one under his chin. If he takes his mittens off to put his lunch in his school bag, he has to start all over. No, he'll be carrying it in hand. He refuses to bend to his father's will, but he also refuses have frostbitten wrists.

"But why?" Light whines, following him to the car. It snowed overnight, and the footprints Dad leaves behind are deep set and far spread. He has to walk in an unnatural way to fit into them.

"Because."

"Because why!"

And his Dad pauses, scrunching his moustache the way he does when he's on his last thread—when he is about to yell…which is also quite often, according to the ghosts in the walls; Light only hears them very late at night, when he should already be sleeping.

"Because," Dad finally utters after a long exhale, and it's like Light can see the puffs of cloudy anger leave Dad's body and dissipate into the air. "…Your mother said so."

"You always say that."

"Well," Dad says, "she always says so, so. Come on."

He gets in his seat and fastens his seatbelt without a word, thoroughly defeated. They inch out of the driveway—it's a slippery one. It should've been a snow day—and the car's tires make deep divots in the snow next to that single string of footprints. They're all wriggly and misshapen now that Light's done with them.

They drive to school in silence, punctuated by one sentence when Light hops out of the car.

"Happy birthday, Light."

"Thanks," Light smiles, closing the door.

Even though the thought of spending five minutes with any of the kids at school makes him wanna crawl out of his skin, he does end up picking nine at random to join him for his birthday.

The cake is red and black and white and tastes like chocolate and Light doesn't really like chocolate, but Dad doesn't really like driving him to school and Mom doesn't really like being 'caged up all day.' This is called compromise.

"You like your cake?"

"Yes sir."

"Good," Dad says. "I'm so proud of the man you're becoming."

Light pushes red and black icing on his plate, and then takes another bite—because he is ten now. Because this is what being a man is all about.

A hulking blonde in a pair of Bauer Supreme M50s and a well worn Scouts jersey creeps up the ice with the name A-I-B-E-R scrawled across his back. He's got the face of a man, the hair of a school girl, and a slap shot that could cleave your head right off your shoulders. Light's nicknamed him Frankenstein.

He stops at centre ice, and some thirty feet away from the penalty box, Matsuda tenses in his gear. Good fucking grief. Such things shouldn't be visible from such a distance. Light does everything in his power to keep from slamming his forehead against the glass.

Lawliet, in his periphery, grins behind his fruit snack.

Light remembers Aiber best from the New York-Edmonton game. The tv was small and the broadcast was fuzzy but it was clear, even then, that the man is a straight up chameleon on the ice. Light's played against him twice and still can't gather if he's right or left handed.

The whistle blows, and Aiber's off.

"Let's GOOOO Matty! Fuck these clowns!" Yamamoto screams from the bench, pounding the boards with his fist. "You got this! One more shot, Matty boy! Just one more shot!"

Matsuda creeps forward, shuffling side to side in an effort to read Aiber's movements. It's a sound strategy as a goaltender, particularly with less experienced players. But Aiber is smart. And old. And the dinosaur has Matsuda right where he wants him with a few inches to spare. He swoops around the face off line with the stick in his right hand, and makes like he's going to shoot right. When Matsuda dives, Aiber readjusts at lightning speed and shoots left. The whole thing is a con.

The horn blares. Aiber blows kisses at the adoring crowd. "Like taking candy from a baby," he jeers, skating past the penalty box. Matsuda, face down, makes no effort to get up.

The Scouts pour onto the ice, doing their little victory jigs before the royal court to whatever shit song this is. All of Madison Square Garden is alive with victory. The civilians behind him are pounding against the penalty box. They've pulled out their best geographically related obscenities. None clever. None earned.

"Go back to fuckin' Jersey, rookie!"

"That's how we do it in New York!"

A six game streak, down the drain. Lost to his father's stubbornness, his goaltender's inanity, and a goddamn conman in a fucking shoot out of all things. At least Matsuda is showing some remorse.

"C'mon buddy," Light says, skating over to the net, "you almost had him."

"What game were you watching?" Matsuda wails into the ice floor. "He creamed me."

It takes some negotiating, but Matsuda eventually rises to his feet, and it's a nothing short of a funeral march to get to the handshake line.

Light is a star, and stars aren't sore losers. Especially not when there are this many cameras. So he paints on a smile and goes through the motions swiftly. Good game. Good game. Go fuck yourself. Good game. Good game. You got lucky. I can't believe we lost on a fucking shoot out. Good game.

When he comes face to face with Lawliet, he can hardly mask his disappointment. But he does—he must.

"Congratulations," Light says, looking him square in the eye and hating every minute of it. "Good game."

"Mm," Lawliet hums in obvious disagreement, but doesn't say anything more.

When they shake hands, it feels anticlimactic somehow. Even the cameras don't linger. For someone who's always giving him a hard time—including not even twenty minutes ago—Light was expecting, well, something.

"Hey," Light says, "I just wanted to say. You got one thing wrong, you know."

Lawliet tilts his head.

"San is the proper honorific between strangers."

"And what did I say?" he mumbles.

"Kun, um, which is more, well, there isn't an English equivalent. The closest would be friend I guess," Light says, making a face, "but even that's pushing it."

"Mm." Lawliet thumbs at his lip, skating backwards. "No, it sounds like I got it perfectly right."

Some friend Lawliet thinks he is, landing Light in the emergency medical office.

"Isn't this a bit much?" Light asks, following the on-site medic—entirely against his will.

"You could hardly get your jersey over your head, so you tell me," Soichiro says, walking sternly behind.

"Just take a seat in here, I'll be back in a minute," the medic says, leading them both to a plain white room with two flimsy examination tables. One occupied by, of all people, Lawliet.

Light flinches in the doorway, surprised to see him, and then acquiesces to the free table. When he climbs on top of it, it squeaks and shifts the disposable paper bedcloth atop it; the sound only enhances the awkwardness.

Lawliet doesn't move.

He lies supine with an arm thrown over his eyes. Breathing steadily. It's weird that he's here, Light thinks. He wasn't the one to get bodyslammed into the boards.

His big, baggy sweater is pushed up, and his gaunt, spindly frame is on full display. His stomach is ghastly white and decorated with sparse, wiry black hairs that Light could probably count on two hands alone. Kind of sad, really.

But then Light notices a cluster of two or three bruises low on his belly, framed between the V of his almost-abs. Yellow and purple and no bigger than a toonie.

Surely Light didn't do that?

"Okay and just tell me if it hurts heeeeeere," the medic tending to Lawliet says, ignoring the bruises and prodding two fingers into his—pronounced—ribs. Lawliet lets out a splintered sigh.

Head Coach Watari enters the room and takes a seat between the exam tables. "Can't be too careful," he says, smiling at Soichiro.

And Soichiro smiles back. "No, you can't. Good game. Well earned."

They shake hands and go on to wax poetic about keeping cool under pressure and other coachy cliches while Light watches Lawliet get the most uncomfortable looking massage of his life.

When the coaches are done jerking each other off, Watari folds his hands and touches them to one of Lawliet's. "Do you need anything?" he asks, quietly.

Fascinatingly, Lawliet hums once, almost pained, and taps the top of Watari's hand twice.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Watari says, and then exits the room.

"Light Yagami," Light's medic declares, basically broadcasting his presence as he enters the room. "Your dad seems to think it's your rotator cuff that's giving you trouble?"

Lawliet stirs, and peeks a gaunt eye out from under his forearm.

"He's being paranoid, I'm fine," Light says. Cool as a cucumber. Of all things, his goddamn rotator cuff. If Lawliet had just left him alone to stretch.

"He can't get it past ninety degrees," Soichiro cuts in.

"Let's take a look, then," the medic says. "Okay, shirt off, and I'm gonna get you to reach up for me."

"Really, I'm fngh—" Light grits, as Soichiro helps him out of his base layer. Sure, it hurts a little to raise his right arm, but the pain of that pales in comparison to the assault the medic is having on his armpit.

He can see Lawliet still sneaking glances.

He flexes his stomach.

For the most part, Light manages to sit still through the exam, save for when the medic twists his arm in one specific way that shoots hot lightning through his body. "Ack! Shit!"

"Shit is right, you went down a lot harder than you think you did," the medic says. "It's just a sprain, but—"

"But I'm good, right? I'm fine for the Montreal game?"

"Not if your range of motion is this limited," the medic laments, "I'm sorry, Light."

"Please—"

"Four-to-six," the medic says to Soichiro with a grim tone, deftly avoiding Light's gaze.

Four-to-six-ing is a slang term for minor injuries, referring to the minimum amount of weeks it takes to heal. If you're Ukita.

"One week," Light pleads.

"Two-to-three, at least," the medic counters. "You can't heal the body by sheer force of will alone."

"I can try," Light says, smirking—and pointedly ignoring the ring of fire constricting his movements.

Quietly, Lawliet scoffs under his breath.

Much as he might like to crawl on top of the examination table and choke the air out of the bastard's lungs, Light takes the high road and avoids looking in his general direction altogether.

"Here's a prescription for a proper sling," the medic says, handing Light a slip of paper. "Morning. Noon. Night. If you're alive, you're wearing it."

"Thank you," Light says, appreciatively. Even though he really appreciates none of this, except for maybe rubbing in Lawliet's face who has the more pronounced six pack.

As Soichiro helps him back in his shirt, Lawliet watches with unabashed intensity. He's still being poked and prodded at like a dead frog on a dissection table. Fitting, Light thinks. Hopefully it hurts.

Watari returns then, a juicebox in hand, and goes so far as to remove the plastic packaging and shove the straw through the opening for him. "Whenever you're ready," he says, patting the pocket of his jacket.

Light's ushered out before he can find out what that means.

"I can barely hear you."

"Really? Mogi says," I can hear you just fine."

"Where are you?"

"Titty bar," Mogi drawls into the line, "you coming or what?"

Light faces himself in the full length mirror of his hotel room. He has to hold his phone with his left hand, now that his right is in a brand new, navy blue sling.

"Uhh, I wasn't planning on it, seeing as how we lost."

Tonight was the most humiliating night of their career, and Light, for the life of him, cannot fathom why the guys would be celebrating that fact in enemy territory. It's another mystery entirely as to why Mogi even sounds surprised by his polite refusal.

"Shoot outs don't count," Mogi scoffs.

"Unfortunately, they do."

"Whatever. One game. We'll survive."

Light stares at his reflection.

It isn't Mogi's fault he's in a sling, of course, but it sure as hell ought to be someone's fault. Because he's wrong. Because it isn't one game. It's the first domino that blows his whole goddamn career up.

Light's off the ice for (at least) one week, and there are three games in that time. With only three spots available in their division to make the playoffs, three back to back ties—or worse—could set them so far back in the points, Light could very well be watching the Stanley Cup Final from his couch.

Sure. One game.

He realizes, only when Mogi continues speaking, that he hasn't been.

"You still there?"

"Uhh, yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking."

"You gotta cool it with that."

"Sorry?"

"I'm going to level with you," Mogi says, "y-cause, you're a good kid and I'm already a little shittered. All this nutrition stuff, hittin' your macros, going to bed."

"Going to bed?"

"Like, fuckin'. Shut up for a second. It's like, you're missing out," Mogi hiccups, well past a little shittered, actually. "It's like, brotherhood."

"Why do you want me there so bad?"

"Cause, fuck," Mogi emphasizes, like any of what he's saying is supposed to answer anything. "Fucking, come on. One drink? One drink."

Not a goddamn chance. If he wants to turn his four-to-six into a one-to-two—

"…I'll let you starve me to death for the rest of the season."

Light's ears perk up at that.

"For real?"

Mogi's a good player, albeit a little stubborn. He follows directions extremely well, but only when the rules make sense to him, which kind of explains now why he's practically at war with their dietician every week.

"I can't even drink here."

"I swiped Aizawa's ID," Mogi whispers into the line. "Come onnnnn."

"Coach doesn't even look like me!"

"Fuckin', like anyone here knows the difference. Don't be a bitch."

Light jolts with, well, something. No wonder Soichiro hand selected Mogi to be the team's most utilized enforcer. He'll go to any length to get under anyone's skin if it leads to victory.

If he just followed his meal plan, and maybe took a little more initiative during practice…

"…Whose all going?" Light hears himself say, a little surprised.

"Uhhh…just you n' me, kid. One drink, one, one drink," Mogi slurs, excitedly. "You n' me. It'll be fun, I'll buy you some titties."

The thought of sitting beside Mogi at a strip joint is the very antithesis of fun, but if Mogi is alone—and Light continues to leave him to his own devices—he might just fall asleep at the bar and wake up in an emergency room.

"…Okay," Light decides, "but I'm only doing this to make sure you don't puke."

"Fuck yeah."

"But no…um, no—"

"—No titties?"

"Yeah. Um. No, please."

"Just drinks."

"One drink?"

"Sure. One drink."

One drink, eh?

Mogi is a liar. He is a liar and an asshole and Light can't even tell him as much because he is too busy making sure the bastard doesn't stumble into oncoming traffic. Also, Yamamoto and Matsuda are here. If there's any silver lining, it's that Mogi's throwing up all over the sidewalk. So Light can go home now.

"Nooooooo," Yamamoto cries, nearly tripping on a crack in the cement, "you can't go home Light, you like, just got here."

"Yeah, to take care of Mogi. He's fucked."

"He's not fucked."

"Look at him," Light argues.

"Piss off, I'm fine," Mogi grumbles, wobbling under Light and Matsuda's hold as they meander down the street. "Where are we even going? Tits are back that way."

"I'm taking us somewhere new. It's called Solitary," Matsuda answers, grunting as he tries to pull his weight.

"Better not be a fan bar," Mogi says, "I'm sick of being told we suck ass."

"Fuckin' shoot outs!" Yamamoto screams at the sky, "fuck YOU New York!"

"Hey, fuck YOU," a random passerby shouts.

About one in thirty New Yorkers seems to have the same sentiments towards them, and the guys have no choice but to endure the onslaught all the way to Solitary. Once they've actually reached the line, Light realizes it's wrapping around the building.

"This sucks," Yamamoto whines. "What's so special about this place?"

"Shit, one second, I'll get him to come out," Matsuda exclaims, abandoning ship. Light nearly falls over taking all of Mogi's weight.

"Get who to come out?" Yamamoto asks.

"That reporter guy, Ron something," Matsuda replies. "He's the one who invited us. Super nice guy."

"Do you mean Raye Penber?" Light asks, a flicker of annoyance in his tone.

"Yeah! He knows the owner. Said he'd get us a VIP booth! Isn't that great?"

"Yeah," Light replies, biting back his unease.

This is his out. They've already been to two bars, and he's had enough soda water to drown a small city. He can either play nice with the kids and go to Solitary, and answer a few unsavoury questions about tonight's game for Penber. Or he can take a twenty minute cab drive back to his hotel, piss in peace, and go to bed.

Raye Penber peeks out the front door, waving them in, and a bouncer lifts an actual velvet rope. Like they're being bestowed a great honor by accepting an invitation from this greasy haired fuck.

"You coming?" Matsuda asks.

He means to say no, he really does, but his bladder is screaming and the lines for the cabs are almost longer than the one to get into this godforsaken place.

"Yeah, coming."

"Awesome!"

Light doesn't know what's more awesome: the fact that—turns out!—Solitary is the unofficial bar of the Scouts, that their VIP booth is seated directly beside a group of them, or the fact that Raye's patiently waiting for shit to hit the fan so he can capture it all on his handheld digital camera. Smiling ear to fucking ear they actually took the bait. What a stunningly bad decision. Matsuda truly has a gift.

A tray with six shots (that they didn't order) arrives at the table. Raye holds up his glass from across the bar, taking full credit. "To a great streak," he shouts. "You'll get 'em next time."

Much like their defeat, Light's teammates accept the free liquor with ease. As do the girls who have randomly decided to join them.

"Light, that's like, really funny. I can't believe your parents named you that."

The girl hanging off his arm laughs. Light's learned that her name is Yuri, and she's an astronomer. If there's anything to find funny in this situation, it's that she's at their booth at all, since she has a small Scouts tattoo on the inside of her arm. For someone who says she loves space, she's hardly giving him any.

"What's so funny about my name?"

"My job. Were you listening to my joke? Light, like. Y'know. Lightspeed," she giggles, twirling her finger in circles across his back. Then she does something far worse before he can tell her that that isn't a joke. The talons of her other hand tip toe up his knee and then zero in on his crotch. "I mean, let's hope not, right?" she whispers into his ear, and his whole body tenses. He'd run for the hills if he weren't sandwiched in the middle of the booth.

"Sorry," Light says, ripping her hand off him. "I need to get out."

She pouts. "You sure you don't want a shot first?"

"No, really, I'm fine. Thank you, though. Can I just—"

She takes his hand in hers and rubs circles over his scuffed up knuckles, haulting the conversation. Her fingers are cold.

The lemon she drags across his open palm is colder. When the sharp citrus hits his nostrils, he thinks of home. Specifically, the upstairs washroom after Mom's been scrubbing it for an hour.

"Have you ever had tequila before, Light?"

"I shouldn't be drinking," he says, motioning to his useless shoulder, "meds and all." Fragments of blue and purple and red refract over the wet patch of skin on his hand.

"You should try it," she pushes, sweetly, pouring salt from a shaker—and wow. He isn't on any meds, but if he were, would she even care?

The crystalline granuals stick to his palm. When she drags her tongue across it, it's wet and wriggly and smells far too much like Mom's bucket of cleaning supplies. He would very much like to wash his hands.

"You're not gonna have one drink with us?" Yamamoto asks.

"He doesn't have to if he doesn't want to," Matsuda cuts in, taking the shot. "Ugh. What a shit goal. I can't believe he got me."

"Aiber's a fucktard," Mogi bellows.

"You're a fucktard," Yamamoto jibs, stealing Mogi's shot for himself. His face is already flushed deep red. Light's betting he'll be the next one to vomit.

"I think you did great, Mogi. We've just been like, go go go." Matsuda says, and then decides that everyone at the table needs a pep talk, apparently. "It's been literally nonstop. Thank god for Light."

"Me?" Light asks.

"If you and Lawly didn't get into that scrap. I mean. If he were the one shooting…" Matsuda puts his head in his hands, dizzy from drink, or embarrassment. Maybe both. "Ugh, I don't even wanna think about it."

"Weeeiiiiird fuckinnnnn' duuuuude," Mogi says, dropping his voice low. "Played half a season with him in 99'."

"Oh yeah?" Light asks.

"Always up to something."

"Like what?"

"I dunno, like, just being a freak. Super antisocial in the locker room. Pretty sure he was stealing shit. Fucker definitely stole my tape. I tried to tell coach, but like, he's untouchable cause he's a savant or whatever. Coach basically told me to fuck myself."

"That sucks," Light offers, flatly.

It's not that he isn't taking joy in how hated Lawliet is, it's that being here is overstimulating, honestly. The flashing lights, the booming bass of the music. The bits of french fries and balled up napkins being surreptitiously thrown from the next booth over.

His insides swim. He'd really like to go home.

"The guys tried to get him out to drinks a couple of times, just to like, see what his deal is." Mogi's starting to shout now. "But he was too fuckin' good to grace us with his presence."

"Fuck him," Yamamoto says.

"Yeah, fucking prick," Mogi says, looking to Matsuda for backup. "Couldn't give a shit about anyone but himself."

An awkward beat follows.

"Uhh, Light—"

"—Matty, it's fine."

"He didn't mean, like, you."

"No, no," Light assures, smiling wide. "It's cool.

"I, uh," Mogi begins, only to give up entirely. "Shit."

"Hey," Light says, in his most pleasant, unoffended tone. He'd sling an arm around the guy if Yuri didn't have it in a vice grip. "Thanks for the invite tonight. I'm glad I came out. I mean it."

"Yeah?" Yamamoto asks.

"Of course. Brotherhood, right?" Light says, plucking a shot off the tray to offer to Yamamoto.

Even though he'd technically been the one to be insulted here, his attempt to recalibrate the table works, and Yamamoto takes the shot with unbridled, drunken enthusiasm.

Across the way, hiding in plain sight, Raye Penber snaps a series of pictures of Light handing it off. The only reason Light clocks it is because the idiot had his flash turned on.

Raye looks at the back of the camera, pressing a couple of buttons and smiling like a literal supervillain.

"Oh, shit."

"What's wrong, Light?" Yuri asks. "Should we go somewhere more private?"

"I need to get out," Light says, emphatically.

It falls on deaf ears. Much like Raye, they're all too consumed with getting theirs.

"Fuck Lawliet," Yamamoto slurs, cheerfully oblivious.

"Fuck YOU," one of the Scouts says in the booth over.

"I need to use the washroom, please," Light says with more urgency, to no avail. His hands grow clammy with sweat—which unfortunately does not deter Yuri.

Prodigy or not, he's a nineteen year old resident in a country where the legal drinking age is twenty-one. In his deal with The Killers, (specifically under the Conduct and Compliance Clause of said agreement) it is explicitely stated that as a player, he must adhere to the laws and regulations of the country he's playing in. And a violation of said agreement could mean suspension, or worse.

Penber's holding his hand in the air, asking for the cheque from the bartender, looking like he wants to high tail it out of there with his prize as soon as possible.

No, no, no. This is bad. This is very bad.

Light asks a final time to be let out, and no one hears his pleas. So, one handed, he shimmies himself under the table and slinks out the other side. He has no other choice.

He needs to delete those photos.

Chapter Text

Some battles are won with bloodshed. Others requires a subtler approach. Much like the case with Raye Penber, they both require a willingness to get one's hands dirty.

"Raye," Light says, hand outstretched.

"Hello, Light. Having fun?" Raye asks with an impudent lilt. He hesitates before accepting the handshake, and when he does, it's just as limp as Light expected it would be.

"Matty was saying your buddy owns the place?"

"Yeah, Steve's a gem. Real salt of the Earth guy. I think before it was a bar, it used to be a hair salon or something. Do you know him? Steve Mason? You two should meet," Raye sputters a mile a fucking minute. "Hey, Steve! Wanna meet Light Yagami?"

"Oh, sorry. I'd love to but I'm actually just heading out. I wanted to say thank you for your generosity."

"I should be thanking you," Raye says, with a shit-eating grin and a not so subtle tap, tap, tap of his index finger on the small, point and shoot camera. It sits directly between them, gleaming under the dramatic blue lights of the bar.

"…You know I wasn't drinking though, right? Sorry if this sounds a little naive of me, I just don't see how a photo of a bunch of Jersey guys in a New York bar is going to turn you a decent profit. Is tabloid photography really that lucrative in America?" Light makes a point to massage his shoulder about halfway through his spiel, making himself appear as pathetic as possible.

"Tabloid photography? Yagami, you have a lot to learn about this industry." Raye sniggers. His eyes are hazy and his breath smells like stale bread. Who knows how long he's been here. A debit machine cuts between them, and Raye turns away to rifle through his jacket.

Some forty feet behind, Mogi waves, stumbling towards the washrooms, and Light takes the opportunity to pull up a seat beside fuckhead. In one swift motion, he hunches in the chair, concealing the camera behind his sling. Game fucking on.

"About that," Light says. "Seeing as how I'm only nineteen, I just, I would really hate for anyone to see those photos and get the wrong idea. Especially my Dad. Who knows what he'd think?"

"Who knows," Raye repeats, uninterested, swiping his debit card and swaying a little. The art of the game hinges on finding out what makes Raye tick, and keeping him ticking until he gets the memory card out.

"I feel like we got on the wrong foot. You seem like a nice guy, and a more than competent reporter—"

"Can it, kid," Raye demands with a dismissive wave, and then he turns to meet Light face to face. "Whatever game you're trying to play isn't gonna work on me. I'm not giving up those photos."

"A trade, then?" Light counters, leaning in closer, because there's no way the game is over before it's even begun. "I mean, I know my Dad isn't super generous with his time, but—"

"—I don't think so. I don't want him. Or you."

"There's gotta be something you want. Maybe I can help," Light pushes sweetly, without missing a beat. And Raye laughs. Laughs. Right in his face.

"There is nothing you can do on God's green Earth to give me what I want, believe me."

"Try me." Light spurs, running his thumb over the card cover of the camera. It keeps catching on his nail, not quite budging.

"Okay," Raye snips, abruptly tearing the receipt out of the debit card reader. "Lawliet."

Light stutters, nearly dropping the camera. "What?"

"I want Lawliet," Raye says, slowly, and patronizing as all hell. His mouth tightens in a line, and he shrugs in a told-you-so kind of way.

"I don't know if I can help you get an interview with the guy who notoriously doesn't take interviews," Light laughs, depricatingly.

"Of course you can't. You're too young to even see what's in front of you."

"What do you mean by that?" Light placates. He presses on the cover a final time and it pops open. He's just got to pull the memory card out of the slot, and then he's home free.

"You. Him. Whatever shit you do to piss each other off so bad. This could be the rivalry of the god damn century. If you knew what was good for you, you'd be working together. Juice is only worth the squeeze when it's fresh."

Raye's lost in the sauce now, going off about who's leading who in the points and acting like he's god's gift to sports journalism. Before Light thinks he's going to fall asleep on the bar top, Mogi reappears in Light's periphery.

Shortly after, shit completely hits the fan.

"W-Where's my camera?" Raye eyes Light accusatorily. Then the sling. Then, behind it, to where the memory card is pinched between Light's fingers.

Fuck.

Raye shoves his arm and reaches for the card, and Light's tendons wail. Adrenaline floods his system. No time to reason. No time to think.

He's out of all other options:

Light screams.

"RAYE! PLEASE! I SAID NO!"

He doesn't really know what he's trying to accomplish by doing this, but just like a bloodhound who's caught the scent of fresh blood, Mogi thunders through the club towards them. In a matter of what feels like seconds, he's got Raye by the collar of his shirt and is screaming in his face.

"HEY! WHAT'S GOING ON?"

"Wh-wh?" Raye unintelligibly stutters, physically craning his neck to meet Mogi's bloodthirsty gaze.

"We got a problem, Penber?! Huh?! He's just a kid, man! You pickin' on a nineteen year old?"

It's mayhem. Patrons seated beside them flee from their barstools. The owner stomps over with a security guard, and everyone's shouting and shoving and turning purple. Before Light has a chance to even open his mouth, he's promptly escorted from the club and kicked out on the curb.

He doesn't even mind how long it takes to get a cab. Between Raye having the daylights scared out of him, and the memory card safely tucked away in his pocket, Light almost can't decide which trophy is his favourite.

Light sits, windowside, holding a magazine in his right hand. They're on a flight to Ottawa, doctor's orders.

"Your mother won't be too pleased."

"No," Light agrees, glancing at the sling, "but it's worse than it looks."

"Tell that to her," Soichiro says with a sigh, and no fucking thank you. For the moment, he's quite relieved to have thirty thousand feet between himself and the ground. "I need a coffee. Want one?"

"I'm okay. Thank you."

If there is a bright side to be had in being barred from the ice for the next two to three games, it's that there's a gap in the schedule big enough to fit in one Thanksgiving dinner before Soichiro has to be in Montreal the following day. Well, depending on one's definition of bright.

He absently flips through the pages of this month's Sports Illustrated. The memory card is still in his pocket, practically burning a hole in it.

"There's a familiar face," Soichiro says, tapping a proud finger to page 25.

Spotlight: Light Yagami, NJ

By: Naomi Misora

Light Yagami has a killer smile, slapshot, and an impressive awareness of his surroundings on the ice that rivals even the most seasoned players. It is hard to believe this is the nineteen year old Canadian's first year playing on the national stage.

Having finally made his dream a reality, the young prospect found himself overwhelmed in an interview with TSN after the New Jersey Killers celebrated their fourth win. "It's kind of crazy," Yagami stated, "it's just such an achievement to be here, standing beside these guys. I'm super happy."

Some experts have likened him to an early L. Lawliet in play style and in natural talent; and their subsequent blossoming rivalry is drawing crowds in record numbers. With the NHL All-Star game approaching in early spring, fans are already betting on whether or not Yagami will make the cut.

The accompanying photo is one taken from their second game as a team. It's a candid of his hat-trick. Light's body is in a humble, disbelieving hunch. He's steadying himself on his stick as all the guys rush him. Matsuda, beaming from the win, ruffles his hair.

"That's a great photo," Soichiro says, nearly missing the bar cart. He orders a cup of coffee with two milks and two sugars. "I remember my first hat-trick. Maybe my third year for The Reapers," he utters, wistfully.

"…Do you ever miss it? What was it like?"

"Nothing like this," Soichiro says, shutting the door on that conversation before Light's even jiggled the knob.

"But you were good," Light pushes. He might as well be pushing a brick wall—he knows. But there's something about being in the air, or maybe not being anywhere, that makes everything feel a little less tangible. A little less unlawful.

"Not nearly as good as you," Soichiro says, deflecting, and then his tone softens to something rare. To a near whisper. "You are an incredible hockey player, Light. You're going to make history."

"You really think so?"

Soichiro smiles, but he doesn't pad Light's ego further. No time for that. They're about to land.

"Put that in your bag, your Mom will want it."

"For what?"

"For when we win the cup."

Soichiro was right. Mom's scrapbook is already out on the table when they walk in through the front door.

It's his first time being home since he left for the NHL and Light's hit with a wave of buttery, floral nostalgia for a handful of seconds; not quite the smell of home, but something like it. It's quickly overtaken by whatever horrific body spray Sayu's wearing.

"Light!" she squeals, wrapping her arms around him.

"Arm, arm!" Mom warns, rushing out of the kitchen in a loose bun and dirtied apron. "Careful, Sayu! Oh! My baby's home!"

"It's okay Mom," Light reassures, and Sayu rolls her eyes at the whole charade. "It's more of a precaution, really."

Mom clicks her tongue disapprovingly, narrowing her eyes—not at him, but—at Soichiro. Like his arm being in a sling is somehow his dad's fault, and not the frog eyed creep who rammed him into the boards for no good reason.

"He's fine, Mom," Sayu says, holding out a digital camera and pulling Light in for a selfie.

"New camera?" Light asks. He is so sick of seeing cameras.

"Found it under your bed."

"Well you can keep it."

In the span of a minute, Sayu snaps a modest two dozen photos and then bounces off to the living room to upload them to her computer. "No one at cram school thinks I'm telling the truth that you're my brother."

"You better not be playing with that," Mom interrupts, eyeing his sling as she hauls his duffel bag up to his room for him.

"Mom, ugh, stop. I'll take that upstairs," Light sighs. "And no, I'm not playing. Dad pulled me out."

"Good. For how long?"

"As long as it takes," Soichiro says, meeting Mom in the middle of the staircase. He gives Mom a quick kiss and Light peels out of his shoes, lining them up along the wall with the others.

"Sayu, come on," Mom chides from the stairs, snapping her fingers and pointing to the kitchen. "You're supposed to be on potato duty."

"I'm getting the TV set up for Dad," she says, grabbing the remote.

Mom makes a noise, disappearing to the second floor, and Light's stomach clenches.

When they all sit down to eat, they listen to the ambient sounds of Ryuk chirping the Montreal team and Rem struggling not to stab him in the jugular with her pen. Tonight's game is Montreal vs. New York, and Soichiro is more absorbed into the game than usual. Mom's asked him three questions about the flight, and he's answered none of them.

"So," Mom sings, high and hostile, "Montreal tomorrow night?"

"Mhmm," Soichiro hums. New York gets possession. Aiber passes to Lawliet, who scores almost immediately. One of the Montreal guys snaps his stick in two, goading Lawliet into a fight. The referee blows the whistle.

Mom hasn't blinked in almost thirty seconds.

Light ducks his head down and pushes his food around on his plate.

Five minutes of silence and one commercial break later, the camera cuts to a close up of Lawliet in the penalty box. He's drawn a little curly French moustache on his face in sharpie. The French commentators are furious.

"Sayu," Mom laments, fork barely grazing her own plate, "Eat."

"I'm not hungry," she replies, texting.

"Too bad. Ugh. Can we not do that at the dinner table? Please?"

"—Can I go out tonight?" Sayu interrupts, eyes not leaving her screen.

Light doesn't mean to—he really doesn't—but his hands twitch, involuntarily, and the fork screeches against his plate. Mom flinches.He's accidentally let the bull loose in the china shop.

"Your brother is never home," Mom exclaims, voice rising an entire octave.

"It's okay, Mom," Light says, softly. "I don't mind if Sayu goes out."

"It's okay that you haven't seen your sister in six months?" Mom fumes.

"Mom," Light repeats, exasperated. And Sayu smiles at him in thanks.

This is the way they are. How they operate. He is a star player, a star brother, and no good deed goes unpunished:

"I'm pretty exhausted from the flight. I'll probably tuck in early. Honestly, it's no big deal if she wants to see her friends. I'm glad we could at least have—"

Soichiro slams his fists into the table. It rattles the silverware—oh, it's the good silverware—and everyone jumps out of their skin. "There we go!"

Lawliet scores on Montreal again. His upper lip is bright red, scrubbed raw. The moustache is gone. Aiber pulls him into a big, bear hug and then kisses him square on the mouth.

Light tugs on his bottom lip. It's as cold as ever in Ottawa and he didn't bring any chapstick.

"He's hot," Sayu says to the tv.

"Really?" Light says.

"Wait. Ew, not number 82. That guy's ugly. Who's the other guy? The kissing one."

"Don't worry about it," Light says, "the kissing one is an asshole." Lawliet is by far the superior asshole, but the stats are on his side that Aiber is too.

"That's enough asshole talk. I think we can turn that off now." Mom says to Sayu. "Sweetie, can you help with dessert?"

"Wait, I wanna see the hot guy again," Sayu whines. Mom doesn't care. She snatches the remote from Sayu and mashes the off button.

"Honey, please!" Soichiro protests, finally deciding to join the conversation. "It's for work."

"It's Thanksgiving," Mom counters.

"Thanksgiving was two weeks ago! And we never even celebrated it until we moved to this goddamn country," Soichiro argues, throwing his napkin on his plate. Mom opens her mouth, but ultimately says nothing.

"I need to see this game," Soichiro says, apologetically, and an excruciating minute passes. If anyone outside were to walk past the window, they'd probably look like a family of mannequins.

"Fine," Mom says, one eternity later. Her eyes are glassy and her footsteps are heavy as she moves some of the bigger dishes to the kitchen. "Watch your game. Go out with your friends. Go to bed. Do whatever you guys want."

Light hears the aggressive, squeaky pull of plastic wrap. He hears the fridge door open gently and slam shut. He hears the shouting—even though they surely have at least a couple of hours before that starts. He hears everything in this house, before anything ever happens. But it always happens, so he always hears it.

This is how his parents spar. In slammed cupboard doors, the clanking of dishes in the sink, and hushed accusations not quite out of earshot.

Light hears Soichiro ask Mom to 'talk' upstairs, and then they're both excusing themselves from the dining room as if everything hasn't gone to total shit.

"That was fast," Sayu says, pulling out her phone. And she's right. There's still forty five minutes left of the New York-Montreal game.

"Yeah," Light says. "…Is she okay?"

"No," Sayu snorts. "What else is new?"

The words ring out, unanswered. Sayu texts merrily on her phone, and Light watches. He watches the walls. The floor. The plants that never grow or die because they're made of plastic. The lamp above their heads that barely shakes with the stomping of feet and muted cries.

What else is new?

"I can't keep doing this alone."

"It's been one summer, you're being dramatic—"

"—Don't you dare, Soichiro. Don't you fucking dare."

Light wakes in a cold sweat. His bedroom is dark. The house is the good kind of silent. His blankets sit in a heap on the floor, as do his clothes. He must have undressed in his sleep.

He flicks on his side lamp, and the room is awash in gold. Trophies and ribbons and framed team photos catch on the lamplight. Nothing has changed since he left. His bedroom is perfectly preserved to reflect the illustrious career set out before him. And it shines so very brightly.

And weirdly.

He feels like he's in a lucid dream in high definition. One that doesn't make any sense—not that dreams ever do.

I was at grandma's house, but it looked like the Eiffel Tower.

I was going to see the Reapers play at the Palladium, but all the players were turning blue. I had fountain pens for fingers.

I was home, visiting Mom and Sayu for Thanksgiving; except it wasn't Thanksgiving and it surely wasn't them. Sayu's body had been posessed by a creature with boobs and painted fingernails and a streak in her hair. Mom was still Mom, but the monster inside her was off-leash. I was the only one trying to get it back in the kennel.

That kind of thing.

His tummy feels a little like spaghetti being stretched out, so he decides to cross some things off his list to centre himself. He grabs the memory card and wrestles his laptop out of his bag, balancing it on his bare thighs. When he slides the card into the slot, a folder appears.

SanDisk_128. 60 MBs used. 1 GB available.

Hesitantly, Light double clicks on the folder, half expecting to find who knows how many players in several compromising situations. He finds the complete opposite.

The first fifteen pictures are some unsavoury, blurry close up shots of what might be a mole. Or an unfortunate birthmark. He wades through those pretty quickly, not keen on seeing anymore of Raye than he already has to.

And then he finds three nearly identical pictures of Lawliet. Raye Penber's White Whale. He is supine on a yoga mat. In a pair of fraying, navy gym shorts, sweating in the training facility of MSG. His skin is wet, shiny. Armpit hair stringy. His arms are thrown over his face, similarly to the way he was sitting on the exam table yesterday. You can almost see the stink lines on him.

Light tucks his hand under the collar of his shirt, and rubs circles into his shoulder. It's still quite sore. Almost shameful, how much it hurts. Lawliet's body is so bony for a hockey player. And bruised…again?

Light leans closer to the screen. The clusters of deep purple stick out like a sore thumb against the sickly hue of his skin. He is so gauntly pale. Save for his chest. Which is pink.

Light rubs his hand along his collarbone, tracing the sling.

Bright pink. Full of endorphins and pumping blood. A more accurate word would be…flushed—

Knock, knock.

Light jumps, slamming the laptop closed.

"Psst," Sayu whispers through the door.

"I'm sleeping," Light whispers back.

She inches the door open, investigating, and eyes the heap of clothes and blankets on the floor, then to the bed. "Ew, are you jerking off?"

"No," Light chirps, offended. Even though he is sitting on his bed in nothing but his boxers, holding a laptop posessively over his crotch. "You look insane," he barks, "where are you going?"

He asks because he wants to divert the conversation from himself and what he's looking at. Because she's dressed like a stranger, all rippped jeans and combat boots, and enough eyeliner to win a Lawliet lookalike contest.

"Gods of Death are playing a secret show in the valley. Wanna come?"

"My flight leaves at eleven," Light says. He grips the laptop unintentionally, and the plastic squeaks.

"Kayyyyyy," Sayu says, squinting. "…If I'm not home when Mom and Dad are up, can you say I'm at Shy's?"

"Yeah."

She makes for the door, and then faces him once more.

"…Are you okay?" she probes. "You're breathing weird."

He swallows. "No I'm n—"

"—Gross. Whatever. I don't wanna know." She decides, closing the door proper.

Breaths a little laboured, hands a little clammy, he wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead. And immediately deletes the photos.

In the sixteen days Light's been off the ice, the New Jersey Killers have lost five out of eight games. Tonight, watching from his own couch in Newark, they lost their sixth.

"The guys really miss you," Matsuda says, grabbing another beer from the fridge. "Want one?"

"Sure," Light says, kind of on reflex. "I miss them, too." Another reflex.

It isn't a fib, per se. He does miss doing drills with his teammates, chanting in the locker room before the game, wiping the floor with the other guys and then reading about it online after. He just doesn't miss them enough to want to see them outside of work. Or enough to have a beer with them before he's had a chance to make dinner, for that matter. But when Matsuda called and said he had a Get Well Soon card to drop off—and also, coincidentally—a conversation to have, Light made an exception. He's kind like that.

"So…you wanted to talk. Everything okay?" Light asks.

"It's bad, Light. Locker room was rough today." Matsuda shakes his head, woefully.

"This can't all be because I left?"

"God, no," Matsuda says absentmindedly—and a little too quickly for Light's comfort. "It's just…you know."

Light shrugs, accepting the bottle from Matsuda.

"Well. Ukita…he's out, for one. Like out out," Matsuda says, falling into the couch beside him.

He can't really ask if a bear shits in the woods when Matsuda looks like he's about to break down in tears, so he just echoes the sentiment. "Oh, that's…that sucks."

"And Coach has been pretty absent during practice," Matsuda utters, taking a long swig of his beer. Then Light does too.

Matsuda doesn't know it, but this is his inagural swig. It tastes like piss and smells like Raye.

"We've fallen pretty far back in the points, and, umm, I haven't heard anything yet…but…the GM is pissed."

"Shit," Light huffs.

"Yeah…Someone's probably getting traded."

The team is down one (1) goaltender—officially—and it's anyone's guess whether Matsuda's getting the boot or getting promoted. He's backup, and they need a starter goaltender.

They share a sympathetic look, and Light shakes his head like a good, good friend. And maybe they are friends; he'd be curious to know what Matsuda has to say on the subject. For now, he's too busy shitting bricks.

He sips his beer, solemnly, and Light mirrors him.

"You wouldn't happen to know…um. Does your Dad ever say anything…bad…about me?"

Oh, Matsuda.

"I just can never tell if I'm in his good books," Matsuda admits, wearily, and Light fights the urge to snort. Not at Matsuda. It's just that no one's name is written in Soichiro's good books.

Light takes another sip of piss, if for nothing else, just to busy his hands.

"Stupid I asked. Nevermind."

"No no," Light says, "Not stupid. It's just…We don't talk."

"Oh, yeah. I get it," Matsuda nods. "Keep it at the rink."

This whole evening feels hinged on half-truths. I miss them, but I don't. We talk—daily—but we don't talk. I don't drink, unless I do, unless I am right now.

"So…any guess as to who they're bringing on?" Light asks. "You might actually know more than I do."

"None yet," Matsuda pouts, "but Coach has been spending an awful lot of time on the phone with New York's GM. I heard something about Christmas."

"Shit," Light says, surprised. Full truth. "That's soon…Maybe we'll get Frankenstein."

"I hope not. He scares me."

"Well maybe I'll be back if we do, so you won't have to be," Light says, cheerfully, and they clink their glasses together.

Everything scares Matsuda. Light's fine.

Fine, even though—two weeks in—his shoulder is still not at 100%. Fine, even though the game is brutal. High-contact, high-injury. The average career lasts around five years, and within that, players have no control over who they play with, and when. Few guys make it to the playoffs. Even fewer to the Stanley Cup final.

But Light knows this. He signed up for this. He cannot spiral over getting traded to a worse team. There is simply no room in the schedule.

Which is fine. Because he's fine.

Chapter Text

"Just tell me now if it's me." 

"If what's you?"

"I've seen my face photoshopped over like, seven different team logos on Sportsnet. I know you can't say anything until we have a contract, but—"

"Light, you're not being traded, " she asserts, and though he isn't buying the act, she does sound pretty convincing. Not that he shouldn't be surprised, that's what he pays her for. Kiyomi Takada is almost as good a liar as Light is. 

"Wait, I'm not?" 

"No. Jesus." He maybe mistakes her tone for something disparaging, which explains the biteback. "You don't think I'd have given you a heads up before Sportsnet?"

"Well. I don't know."

"There are offers, plenty of them."

"How come I haven't—"

"But the GM's not budging on it." 

"On me, you mean."

Kiyomi is his agent, his support staff. But lately, she struts about with the air of a cattle wrangler. Thank goodness he's the one really calling the shots. 

"The GM regards you as a major asset, in case the seven streak loss in your absence wasn't obvious enough. Which brings me to why I called." He can hear her fingernails tapping on her desk. Sharpened to a point. This is not going to be an easy conversation. "There's something that I think we should go over since you're quite the hot commodity." 

"I have to be at the airport for ten," Light warns, which is both true and not true. Talking to Kiyomi is a little like hostage negotiating; in so far it's long, arduous, and you get the impression she'll burn everything to shit if you don't give into her demands. So it is paramount one always has an out.

He does have a flight to catch, but it isn't leaving until dinner time. "Email it to me and I'll look it over on the flight."

"Unfortunatelyyyy," she sings, with not a drop of misfortune to be found, "I need to let the client know in the next hour. Can't do that while you're in the air now, can I?" 

"The client?" 

"Think of them more as a partner."

Client. Associate. Partner. All made up and misguided words to trick him into whoring himself out for a quick buck. No fucking thank you. "I'm sorry, Kiyomi—"

"—I know you think endorsements are cheap," she bulldozes, "but you're wrong." 

"They are cheap."

"These guys aren't. Let's just see if we can make that busy schedule of yours a liiiiiiiiiittle busier while you're in Carolina. It won't eat up any training time. Six to eight am, that's it. Two hours." 

Light sighs, tossing a pair of swim trunks and a towel in his suitcase. "What's the gig?"

"Sakura!" she says, excitedly. God knows why.

A beat passes.

"Potato chips?"

"Isn't it great!"

"You're joking."

"I don't see what's so funny about the largest snack distributor in the world offering you an endorsement deal. You're fucking great, they're fucking rich. What's the problem?" 

Light hears a slimy click and knows she's just licked her thumb. Which means she's already looking over the contract. Which means she already signed it. "Don't you wanna make some money?" she asks. Another Kiyomi-ism, all we until she's cashing her cheque. Not a fuck to be had for how something like this could affect him in the long run.

"I don't even eat chips. Isn't that like, false advertising?"

"They don't care. Honestly, I don't care. Do you think Eraldo Coil's face was plastered in every cereal aisle in the country because he just loved stuffing his face with high fructose corn syrup?"

"Of course not," Light snips. "It's just stupid."

"Does twelve thousand dollars sound stupid? Well, ten point two, minus my cut, of course."

Light tucks a book into his carry on, thinking maybe it's time for a new agent. "Your cut is ten percent, not fifteen," he corrects. "And the answer is no. This is ridiculous. I have to go."

He snaps his phone closed, and releases a deeply held breath as he pockets it, dragging his suitcase to the door.

Thirty minutes later, his phone rings again.

"Fifteen thousand."

"I'm not doing it."

"Twenty. What if I get you twenty thousand?"

Money, money, money. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and contemplates flushing his cellphone battery down the toilet. "I'm hanging up now."

"Twenty thousand dollars, Light. Twenty thousand dollars to get that pretty little ass of yours driven to a photo studio to take a picture eating a potato chip. Are you hearing yourself? Are you kidding me?"

"Kiyomi."

"You don't even have to eat it. You just have to hold the bag."

Empty promises. She's scrambling just to keep him on the line.

"…No." 

"My agent said I didn't have to eat the chip."

"And where is the lovely miss Takada?" the Sakura TV head asks as he looks around exaggeratedly, between plucking chips out of a bag. There's a massive bowl of mini-bags on the table. "If she were here, she'd graciously point out that your agreement says otherwise," he says, circling in the final zero on his fifty-thousand dollar cheque.

Kiyomi. That bitch. Light can practically hear her witch's cackle all the way from Toronto. When he gets back to the hotel he'll have to look over the final agreement, if the wifi even works. Knowing her, it probably says she's getting a fifteen percent cut, too.

"Flavour?" the TV head asks, sliding the cheque across the table.

"Sorry?"

"Chip flavour, son," he says, and like everything, it has an almost cartoonish quality. Like a used-car salesman. Or a talking duck. "I say sour cream's the way to go, but I'm pretty biased," he says with a wink, absentmindedly getting crumbs on the carpet. 

"Uhh… Barbecue I guess?"

"Excellent choice," the TV head says, scrawling what looks to be nonsense on a post-it note.

Sakura's conference room is big and empty, completely uninteresting in the way all conference rooms are. Three out of the floor walls are made of a cheap panelling, the fourth is entirely plexiglass. The drop ceiling is missing a few tiles.

Without knocking, a slim blonde woman in a houndstooth dress slinks into the room. She is, by far, the best dressed person in the building, and her presence alone dates the room even more. Something about her makes his hair stand on end.

"You must be Light," she says, and her voice is honey sweet like an old movie, and just as gray. "Walk with me."

"O-okay," Light nods, looking to the TV head. Fat fuck wouldn't have so much as glanced over his third bag of chips if Light didn't check to see if it was okay that he leaves. He waves them off, fingers crusted over.

"So, here's the angle that creative's come up with. The campaign is Gods of Hockey, and we're gonna have you in this," she pauses, and contorts her face into something that would take a jury to parse, "…ketchup kingdom."

Left, right, right. Right again. They fly down hallway after hallway, until they come to a big, yellow room, with big, yellow lights framing the mirrors. Trays and trays of brushes and bottles sit out in complete disarray, which is fitting, considering.

She directs him to one of those movie set fold-out chairs, and then launches into her spiel. Clearly pre-written. "We here at Sakura are expanding the ketchup flavour to American markets. Creative says its basically a no-brainer. If you ask me," she says, hovering behind him. Their eyes meet in the mirror. "I think it's all rather embarrassing the way they're going about it."

"…Lucky me."

"The eastern market is gonna go nuts for it." She crosses her arms. "It'll be ketchup as far as the eye can see. Don't worry, you'll be really eating barbecue."

"Great."

"Great," she mimics, parting her red, red lips to reveal white, white teeth. "We'll need to axe the sling, just for the shoot. Any allergies?" 

"Um,"

"And when was the last time you waxed?"

"I have…never," he begins to explain, and the words are tacky, coating the back of his throat. "A-am I going to be shirtless?"

"Oh, darling. You don't catch flies with vinegar," she cooes, and then her face contorts into a parody of something mentorial. He feels like he might die. "Hot guys, in case that wasn't obvious," she deadpans, gesturing to Light's body in the mirror. "That's how you catch them." 

Light's fingers clutch the arm rests. "So you're, like, hair and makeup I guess?" 

"Me?" The woman retorts, as if she's not the only fucking person in the room. She answers with one, singular crack of laughter, and then waltzes out the room. He hears her shouting for someone to carve out wax time and it echoes down the hallway.

The whole building smells like powder and dead flowers. Oh, there are some in a vase on top of a closet. Maybe, if he asks very nicely, he can trade places with them. 

Four Weeks Later

"No, no, no! Rem! I wanna say something first. Before we throw to commercial." Ryuk bellows. He is dressed in a bright blue, holiday themed suit. The outfit is jovial. His tone is not. "I wanna say something to you, Coach Yagami, specifically. And I hope you're watching. I really do. Because it's bad. fucking. coaching. What you're doing. And someone's gotta tell ya."

"Ryuk," Rem hisses in warning.

"No, listen," he says to Rem, and then to the camera with added vigor. "It's your star player's first game back, and the last one of the calendar year, and you're playing against the guys who knocked him out in the first place." Ryuk, emboldened, prods the newsdesk with his finger. "Whether Yagami gets ice time or not, it doesn't f*****' matter. If your team can't keep it together without him, you've gotta major problem." 

"You're right," Rem submits. "It is fortunate for the team that it was just a sprain, but Yagami's leave does expose a weakness for New Jersey that New York may try to capitalize on tonight."

"Well I'm rooting for the underdog officially. New Jersey, you had a great start to the season, but you guys stink worse than my neighbor's dog****. Get it to-f******-gether. Or get eaten alive. It's your funeral." Ryuk belts, snapping open a Sakura brand bag of ketchup chips with a shirtless Yagami printed on the front of the package.

Rem folds her hands, ignoring Ryuk's chewing. "From all of us here at TSN, I hope everyone enjoys the holiday break with their families. We'll be back in sixty minutes with the post game. Let's watch some hockey." 

"I bet you think that's real funny."

"I'm stretching right now, Light-kun."

Light barks a laugh so loud that it engulfs the crinkling of the bag of ketchup chips in Lawliet's hand. So loud that it turns some of the other guys heads. Lawliet pinches a chip with two fingers and holds out the bag, as if to compare differences between Light and the—ugh, shirtless—picture of himself on the packaging. Light stands, hand on hip, waiting for it. It, being a comment, a jib. It, being…anything.

But Lawliet doesn't so much as arc a hairless brow. He chews, rather obnoxiously, making vague humming noises as his eyes dart back and forth. And then he goes back to stretching.

It isn't like him to address Lawliet at all, but it also isn't like him to be ignored. Truth be told, Light's pent up from being off the ice so long, and lord knows the waxing team at Sakura only fanned the flames. A part of him rages for the opportunity to get some aggression out. But for the first time since the start of his career, Lawliet isn't interested in atagonizing, or even engaging.

No harm. After this, New Jersey is headed up north to play a string of away games in the Atlantic division. Some of those guys are apparently pretty brutal. He won't have to see Lawliet's face for a while, either. Added bonus.

"You shouldn't even be eating during warm up." Light says, at a more reasonable volume.

Lawliet continues to gawk as he stretches. Then eats another chip.

Light decides to get his blood flowing with some simple start-stops. He brushes his bangs out of his face, and from the centre line skates at full speed for four to seven seconds, then he stops as sharply as possible.

Two. Three. Four. Stop.

Shhhk. 

Two. Three. Four. Stop.

Shhhk. 

A bolt of cold shoots up his leg, and then another. After a handful of start-stops, he finds that his back is getting pelted with frost. It keeps flying over the blue line and wedging itself in the back of his skate. 

"What the hell?" 

Lawliet's on his feet now. Copying him. Shocker.

"Stop."

"Yes, I did. Thank you for the nutrition advice, Light-kun." Shhhhhhhhk. "I am feeling much more ready now."

"Hey!" Mogi barks, loud enough to be heard over the sharp sound of Lawliet's skates cutting into the ice. Loud enough to grab the attention of the entire team, too, apparently. "Fuck off with that." 

He skates over, and the rest of the guys—weirdly—float over in their general direction, too.

"Are you talking to me?" Lawliet asks, owl eyed.

"Don't gimmi that," Mogi spits. Seems he, too, is in the spirit tonight to throw a few punches. "You better watch yourself tonight."

"Yeah," Yamamoto says, just happy to be somebody's second violin. Light drags a hand down his face.

Lawliet merely watches, a phantom smirk creeping up one side of his face as both teams pool around them. The chirps start flying, and though they can all see their breath puff out in thick clouds of smoke, the air feels almost electric. Thick and ravenous as Light and Lawliet eye each other down.

Lawliet takes another chip, and drags the flat of his tongue up. Provoking.

"That good, eh?" Light says, skating closer. As close as one can before ending up on enemy lines. Lo and behold, Lawliet follows like the good little underling he is. So predictable. So—

"I'm going to devour you, Light-kun."

Light's heart thumps. "I'd like to see you try."

Lawliet huffs, so very amused by his rebuttal. Joke's on him. On all of them. The Scouts are playing with fire, and Light's blood buzzes like fucking kerosene.

The whistle blows. "C'mon," the referee barks. "Lockers, boys!"

It used to be a disarming thing. The way his overbitten snaggletooth perches over his lower lip. But when Lawliet grins, looking near like he's going to drool on his jersey as he skates away, sparks fly in Light's gut. He's never been so excited for the opportunity to punch someone.

Game fucking on.

Or not. 

"That's dumb as shit," Yamamoto blurts out loud, face immediately reddening upon realization.

"Thank you for that," Coach Aizawa says, not attempting to hide his sarcasm whatsoever as he clicks his tongue in disapproval. He and Soichiro have been deliberating in the dressing room over who's going to go out first—for over twenty minutes—as if the answer isn't stark fucking obvious. 

There's only a few minutes left. They still haven't come to an agreement.

"I think we need to break things up a bit." Soichiro claps his hands together to mask the betrayed sound Coach makes behind him. "It's been a tough few weeks, and as happy as we are to have Light back, his injury took him out longer than even we anticipated; we don't want a repeat performance tonight. So we have to be strategic."

"Strategic being putting you on second line, apparently," Coach Aizawa says, miffed. "Thanks for understanding, cause I sure as hell don't."

"Right," Light says, chewing on his mouthguard. His feet tap erratically in his skates. If he's playing second line, he'll be spending two thirds of the game with his thumb up his ass, and the team will suffer for it. They've already suffered enough.

"But it's New York, Coach," Matsuda pipes up, "I'm sorry but, if we don't hit 'em with all we got from the moment we get out there, we're toast." 

It's like a flint to steel. The dressing room erupts into chaos, and everyone's suddenly screaming at each other. Soichiro and Aizawa even start going at it. Mogi calls Yamamoto a dumb fuck, and gets a flip-flop whipped at his head in return. Nervously, Light twists off the lid of his water bottle and chugs some of his energy drink.

"Enough," Soichiro bellows, the loudest anyone here's ever heard him. "You're acting like children!"

And for some reason—for all the shouting, the swearing, the flying flip flops—that statement makes Light's shoulders jump and his fingers twist in unnatural directions. The water bottle flies out of his hand. Energy drink spills out everywhere.

"Sorry guys," Light utters, rushing to the floor. "I got it." 

A few guys toss their towels down, and Light presses them into the floor. Some even have his face on them. He watches them absorb as much of the liquid as they can, but the blue of it is soaking into every crevice. His terrycloth teeth, once stark white, bleed blue. Blue crawls over the logo painted into the centre of the floor. Most of the guys start cursing, spouting nonsense about bad omens. 

As if things couldn't get any worse, Matsuda drops to his knees to help.

"You okay?" he whispers, pressing his own towel into the floor.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" Light whispers back, laughing it off. "You?" 

"No," he says with a small smile, "been shitting bricks since you left. Glad you're back."

"Me too. You're gonna do great."

"Not if you're not out there."

Light scans the dressing room that is still very much in disarray. Mogi and Yamamoto are still going at it. Soichiro is on the phone with someone, hiding in his office. Mogi chucks his helmet defensively, not necessarily at Yamamoto. Even if it did hit him, Light wouldn't care. He absolutely had it coming.

Soichiro returns, closing his office door.

"So, what's the plan?" Matsuda asks, and Coach Aizawa rubs his temples. Mentally preparing himself to go to war for the umpteenth time. For having Soichiro as a partner, he deserves double of whatever they're paying him.

"We keep Light on—"

"—Put me in," Light rebukes, before anyone else has a chance to. He musters all the confidence one can while kneeling in a pool of electrolytes in front of their own father. "Put me in, and we'll win it." 

"Your shoulder—" Soichiro exhales. The lines on his face have deepened so much since the start of the season. It's one of those things that's both unnoticeable and impossible to ignore. 

"—Is fine. You saw the ultrasound."

Of course he's seen the ultrasound. Soichiro demands to see every record, pours over every statistic, well into the night. For nineteen years, it has been this way. There are no secrets between them. No opportunity for such things.

"C'mon," he says, and it sounds a lot like begging. "I can do this. Put me on first line. Let me play."

"Let him play, for chrissake," Mogi adds. "I can't take Lawly and Frankenstein alone."

Soichiro pulls out his phone, and it's hard to tell if someone's texted or if he's just nervous and needs to fidget with something. Either way, he's doing a damn good job of evading eye contact with everyone single person in the room, Coach Aizawa included. 

"I can do this," Light says. "My shoulder is fine. I'm ready."

"Soichiro," Coach Aizawa says, and Soichiro flinches when he wraps an arm around his shoulder. "He's got the Yagami blood in him. He'll be fine." 

Soichiro drops his head and exhales. When he looks at Light and smiles, there is so much hesitation behind it that Light knows this will be his funeral if he gets hurt again. "Alright."

"Fuck yeah!" Mogi cheers, slamming his helmet into the ground.

"Light," Soichiro says, approaching. 

"Yeah?"

The fluorescent lights frame his face strangely from this angle. His face is shrouded in darkness, and something twitches in Light's gut. 

"Kill 'em."

The air is crisp. The rink is so white it nearly glows. Light steps one foot out onto the ice and the city of Newark erupts, volcanic in the darkness. Homemade signs spackle the stands. Girls make kissy faces against the glass; some of the more drunk men do, too. And at the centre of it all, Lawliet hovers on the blue line, invintingly. 

God, it's good to be back.

"Hello again," Lawliet says. He doesn't have so much as a scratch on him, and he's wearing his away jersey. It's stark white, hungry for bloodsplatter. Light can't wait to decorate it.

He settles in front of Lawliet, elated. Too pent up to even be put off by his crooked grin, pasty skin or slanted stature. Maybe he has scoliosis. Maybe Light will make it worse. The thought makes him giddy. 

New Jersey had promised their nose-to-the-grindstone coach a win tonight, and when they do it'll be the cherry on top of Light actually convincing Soichiro of something. 

"Hello," Light says in response, flashing his perfect smile. Getting to play, getting to knock Lawliet's teeth out in the process. It's all cherries.

The referee welcomes him back to the rink with a curt nod and a firm verbal warning to keep things good and clean, yadda yadda yadda.

"Yes sir," Light says with a smirk, arching a brow in question. He doesn't break eye contact, and Lawliet doesn't either. If anything, his pupils are salivating, impossibly dilated under the fluorescents. 

The referee holds out the puck, whistle pinched between his teeth, mere moments away from unleashing hell upon earth. It feels like his virgin game—no, better than that. The sheep rattle against their cages by the thousands, knowing now what it means to have been abandoned by their Shepard. Light can save the team. He can save them all. He starves for the opportunity to do so.

Light licks his lips, absently, and Lawliet twitches. 

The puck drops. 

It's in his possession before Lawliet even looks down. 

 The scoreboard sits at 6-6.

"THAT'S IT, BOYS!" Coach Aizawa hollers, which is strange, because he sounds happy and he shouldn't. Because something is wrong (besides the obvious something that blares every forty to sixty seconds on the jumbotron). 

The something in question is Lawliet; he isn't chasing him. In fact, he's made no effort to intercept any of Light's plays all game. So Light just keeps scoring.

Frankenstein tries his best to crawl up his ass, and he's been doing a pretty good job of it. Light can't really get to Lawliet to stop him from scoring, either. They're perfectly matched for speed, technique, and agility. Without either of them crossing each other's path, it's more of a race to see who can score as many goals first before the clock runs out. 

Right now, Light can't get enough speed to intercept Lawliet because Aiber is too preoccupied being his personal brick wall. Mogi is generally the man to call on for help in a situation like this, but he can't keep up to save his life.

"Fuck, COME ON!" Mogi bellows, temper getting the better of him when he finally reaches Aiber. The two of them, plus Light, plus Lawliet, are all jammed together in the crease, fighting for the puck. Sticks clack against each other in rapid succession. Skates carve over one another in the crease. Matsuda's mitts can't find purchase on the ice floor, unless he wants to lose a finger, so he's really just doing his best to starfish out and cover as much net as possible while the rest of them duke it out. 

"Move, you twat!" Mogi shouts. 

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Aiber asks, exhausted. Light can hear it in his voice. How sad.

"I'll kiss your goddamn ballsack with my fist."

"Oh yeah?" Aiber goads, shucking off his gloves and blowing patronizing little kisses.

"Guys," Matsuda pleads in that pathetic little tone of his. He looks like a child being shoved back inside his mother's womb. She should've forced him into badminton. "It's all good, c'mon."

"It will be once I knock your goon to kingdom come," Aiber jeers with a wink, and then his fist meets Mogi's face.

Mogi and Aiber both end up in the penalty box for the last remaining seven seconds of play. The scoreboard sits at 7-6 now. Light was able to score with no interference, from Lawliet or Aiber.

Once again, it's all coming down to the wire, and Light dances on it with Lawliet in the face off. But it's all wrong. Lawliet has no fire in him, no fight.

"What's wrong with you?" Light asks.

Lawliet deflects. His tone is weak, like dampened cardboard. "How is Light-kun's shoulder?" 

"Fine," Light says, going in for the stick tap. The favour is not returned. "Scared of getting your shit rocked again, is that it?"

"You're winning. Why make things harder for yourself?"

"Did your dog die or something?" Light snips. Neither have broken a sweat all game. "What the hell is wrong with you?" 

"I don't think Light-kun wishes to know the answer to that." Lawliet huffs.

"Come on. Play me." He taps again. "Fucking play me." 

"What's the point?"

"What?" Light replies, a little dismayed. 

"Light-kun is still so new to this." He looks at the ice floor, and his lashes hang heavy over his eyes. "He couldn't possibly understand. He's still a baby." 

"Fuck off with that," Light says, clipped. "I know you're just trying to piss me off." 

"You're a remarkable young man, in the peak condition of your life. You are a prodigy, a legend already at nineteen," Lawliet mutters, scrambling to get everything he wants to say out with what little time they have left before the final whistle blows. "One of the greats. Destined for the Cup. The hall of fame." 

Lawliet's head darts up then, as he skates so close to Light that their visors clink. It catches him off guard. "Relatively speaking," Lawliet says, softly, "it's all downhill from here."

This must be his Hail Mary, his last ditch effort to goad Light into throwing the first punch. Well too bad for him. If Lawliet is willing to give up his win, so be it. Not his problem. 

Still, his giant owlish eyes finally coming up to meet him twists Light's gut.

"So much for devouring me," Light says, smirking through his disappointment. He looks up at the scoreboard. Piece of fucking cake. 

"Would you believe Coach Yagami instructed me not to?" Lawliet says through a pout, mimicking him once more.

"No, I wouldn't."

"—Which is for the best, presumably. You taste terrible, at least by Sakura's standards."

Something rakes through Light, then, but it's so very small, and hidden behind a locked door. Buried in darkness, an anger that he doesn't know the name of. He can't even see it.

Soichiro didn't. He wouldn't. He doesn't think Light's that weak, that helpless, surely? 

It's a low level chirp—by Lawliet's standards—but it's said with such resignation, such defeat, that Light can't help himself. The bench sways. He has to look. But won't Lawliet win, if he does? 

"You're lying," Light says, snapping on him. Voice unnaturally worn for how little he's exerted himself all game. 

Lawliet says nothing. He completely withdraws, three feet—and standard regulation is five—but he feels oceans away. Light goads him with another stick tap, this one frantic, but he recoils like it's molten hot.

A black blob in a red tie shifts in his periphery. Soichiro in his usual stance, stock-still with hands pressed in prayer over his moustache. Looking not at Light, but at Lawliet.

When the linesman drops the puck, it might be the first time in hockey history no one takes it.

The plastic chair squeaks under him, just as it always does. As do the birds, trying to get their worms. Silly as it sounds, there is a kind of comfort to be had in being a worm. The job is simple. Hide, and don't get eaten.

"Light, Light!" Raye hollers, reminding Light what an actual worm looks like. "That was incredible." 

"Thanks," Light says, rubbing his neck. His body curves over the podium in a humble hunch. "But it was really a team effort." 

"Speaking of!" someone shouts, "what do you make of the switch up?"

"Are you happy about the trade?" another says, adding an additional mic to the bouquet in front of him. "Are you going to miss Yamamoto? Were you close? What do you make of Lawliet joining the team?"

"Yamamoto's…being, Lawl—what?" Light says, into all seventeen microphones. His hands tighten under his chair. He might float away if he lets go.

"How are you feeling about the trade?" Raye asks, all teeth and beady eyes.

Light takes a sip of water and clears his throat. Showtime. "I…am very much looking forward to it." he says, and it comes out far too squeaky for his liking. 

"Are you?" Raye prods.

"He's a legend. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Things looked heated in the handshake line. What happened there?"

Light stiffens. Imperceptibly, of course.

"Nothing too exciting. It was a good game, and we said just as much."

In actuality, it was the first time Lawliet didn't shake his hand. Light apologized, over and over, begging for him to save face for the cameras. To not inflate this stupid rivalry into something that'll haunt every newspaper and television channel for the rest of the season. But Lawliet is stubborn and selfish and he didn't budge. Around and around, that hideous feeling returned, and in an act of desperation he'd yanked Lawliet by the jersey. 

"Sorry, I'm. Fuck, I'm sorry," he said, feverish. 

"You know, for someone who says it so much, you rarely ever are," Lawliet said, looking down to where Light's hands were still wrenched around his collar. "And you certainly don't seem it now."

Lawliet skated off after that, smug and self-satisfied as he dragged himself to the Scouts dressing room for what he knew would be the last time of the season. He fucking knew. He knew the whole time.

Light laughs into the microphone, and Raye jostles back. 

"I hope he shows me a thing or two," Light beguiles, flashing his million dollar grin at the cameras. They flash, each taking home a little piece of him.

Lawliet was right about one thing. Light hasn't felt a tinge of sympathy for the man since he met him. Not while clutching his jersey. Not while fighting him on the ice. Not even in the medical office, hearing him groan in pain. 

Light isn't one bit sorry. But after the holidays, Lawliet will absolutely be.

Chapter Text

Light Yagami is a totality; a whole, greater than its sum, and expertly operated. Built of parts, on top of parts, on top of parts.

The parts of him that people are presently trying to claim for their own go numb as he makes for the doors. The parts of him in charge of reassuring his adoring public that everything is fine go into lockdown. The parts of him that he relies on so heavily on the ice, go on auto-pilot as he wades through the crowd. People keep touching him. More pieces go offline. By the time he gets out of the arena, to where the open air can kiss his skin, he doesn't even feel it.

It's unusually warm in Newark, but his spine seeks to shiver all the same. It doesn't, of course, because Light Yagami is greater than his sum; his control over such is absolute. But something in him is freezing cold, and it's making his movement jerky.

One hand grips the bag over his shoulder. The other digs crescent moons into his palm. He needs to get the hell out of here before someone loses a tooth. He needs to go home. When he does, the first thing he will do is clip his fingernails.

Five cars away from his father's humble four-door is a Rolls Royce Phantom in slate gray. A car so up its own ass it can't belong to anyone other than Lawliet. He would be able to discern as much even if Soichiro and Coach Watari weren't tightly whispering in front of it. The windows are tinted, far too dark to see if there is anyone sitting inside, but he knows Lawliet's there. His legs pick up speed.

"Oh, Light," Soichiro says, spotting him. His tone is disarmingly nonchalant, or it would be, were Light not in complete control. "I'd like to formally introduce you to—"

Light, staring straight ahead, sidelines them both. He passes his own car, the Rolls Royce, and makes for the gates. No time for chit-chat, he is a man on a mission. He needs to go home and clip his nails.

"Light! Where are you going?" Soichiro hollers, and this voice is one he recognizes a bit more. Confusion, wearing anger's clothes. "Get back here!"

Only when Soichiro takes a step forward does Light respond.

"I'll see you at home!"

"The car is back here!" Soichiro yells, and the distance grows between him and the sound.

"I'll call a cab!"

Parts on parts on parts, freely taken by anyone who so much as enters his orbit. He adjusts his ball cap to hide his face. He pulls his hood up over it, tugging on the strings. He makes himself as small as possible as he speedwalks away from the arena. There are regular people still leaving, and the last thing he wants is to cause a scene.

The sidewalk, snowy, blurs in front of him. He loses himself in a small crowd, and bits of snow kick up, getting lodged in the back of his shoes. He thinks of warmup, and then of Lawliet, how excited he was at the beginning of this day.

He thinks of the third period, of Soichiro, and then is trying not to cry.

"I really wish you'd be more careful out there. It makes me sick sometimes, I never know if you're safe."

"Did you catch the last game?" Light asks, and he makes sure to punctuate the question with a hearty, but depricating little chuckle. "It was actually really tame."

She clicks her tongue. "You know I can't handle the violence." In the same breath she asks, "why didn't you book a flight home?" Her voice is accusatory.

"Mom—"

"Why don't you ever come home? Thanksgiving, now Christmas. That's two holidays I have to spend alone."

He wants to remind her she has a whole other child—under the same roof, no less—that will be home with her during the entire holiday break, but that wouldn't be fair to Sayu. "I was just home," he reminds her. "And I still have—"

"It's like no one cares if I even exist," she blubbers into the phone. As if that's any incentive to get his ass on a plane. "I miss you so much it hurts sometimes."

School trips. Summer camps. Weekends away with friends. She misses him being home so much, until he actually is. It's just the way things are.

His mouth feels stuffed full of cotton. He hunches over the bathroom trash can, clipping his nails, struggling to say the words back. The phone is wedged between his shoulder and jaw. Two birds, one stone kind of deal.

"I feel trapped in this house. I miss you so much, baby."

"Yeah," he says, and the syllables hide behind his teeth. Not that he can't fault her for feeling lonely. He has far more memories of Soichiro's shoes missing from the front hallway than Mom's. So he bucks up, and says, "you too," even though it isn't true.

For a minute, he wonders if she'll ask him a question. Not a specific one or anything; just something about his day, maybe, or what the weather's doing. It would be nice. The weather is really weird right now, according to the locals.

"Are you sure you can't come home? The TV said you're on a break."

Pain spikes under the edge of his nail. He's cut too close to the quick. Taking the skin to his mouth, he laps at the bead of redness that's bloomed there. He tastes nothing.

"Three daysbut," Light mumbles over his thumb, making sure she's heard the but before he continues. "It's barely even a break. We're flying to Boston the day after tomorrow. It's just, it's a lot even without the holidays."

"Oh." She sighs into the line. Something heavy lands in the sink. Stress cleaning.

"Mom," he sighs.

"Mhm," she hums. It's getting harder to hear her over the running of the kitchen sink.

"I know you want us home. But we need to practice. Two of our guys just got traded—"

"—Why am I the last to know everything? Why does no one ever tell me these things?" Pots and pans clank together. A cupboard door closes. "Can you text your sister? I can't find the dish soap."

"She isn't gonna. Ugh. It just happened, I literally just found out," he says into the line. But a flip has switched. There is no one there to hear it. Sometimes, he wonders why he says anything at all.

The garage door opens. It rattles through the entire house.

"…I'm gonna go."

"That's great, baby. Send me an article, yeah?"

"Mom, are you listening? I really gotta go. I'll call you when we land in Boston, okay?"

"I want to see your big win! Is there a replay somewhere I can watch?"

"Mom."

"Okay. I love you. I love you so much, baby. Text Sayu. Ask her about the dish soap."

"Okay."

He hangs up and sighs over the trashcan with juddering lungs. Blood pools under his freshly trimmed, bright pink nailbeds. It is a complete hack job.

Soichiro's voice snaps like thunder. "Hello? Anyone home?" Light sticks his thumb back in his mouth and bites down on the wound, sending a jolt of pain up his hand. He doesn't really know why. Just that it helps.

Footsteps, and then a one-two tap on the bathroom door.

"You in there?"

"Mom called."

"Oh." There is a pause. "That's nice. Do you have a minute?"

"Um," Light stalls. "I'm kind of tired, maybe we can talk tomorrow?"

"Okay," he replies. He's never been one to push. "Maybe tomorrow."

Tomorrow comes. They don't talk. Light is out the door before they have a chance to. In the backseat of a cab, he idles outside of the arena. The cabbie who took him there, as luck would have it, is a massive puckhead and instantly recognized him. Lovely.

He wasn't as bright and bubbly as he wanted to be, and you never know what's going to make headlines, so he tips him a hundred bucks to make up for it. Reputation, he knows, is made in small moments.

He breezes through the Killers private entrance, gym bag slung over his shoulder, and mentally maps out his workout. No weights today. His nails are still sore. Maybe some stretches to start, then twenty on the treadmill—

"Light-kun?"

Light stops dead in his tracks.

It is Christmas Eve. No one should be here.

"Lawl…" he utters, faintly.

The hallway is empty. So long and dark that it looks like it drags on for infinity, and Lawliet is standing square in the middle of it, some thirty feet away.

His posture is terrible. Off the ice, he looks like some kind of freakish, upright shrimp in his oversized tracksuit. With no helmet to contain it, his hair is a total mess. The tips wildly point in thirty directions. The underbelly of it looks matted. He's like a sickly dog, doing a party-trick just by standing on it's hind legs. How cute. It thinks it's people.

Footsteps swell in the distance. A man passes behind him, wheeling a large, brown box by on a dolly. He is followed by Coach Watari, who is holding a clipboard. They disappear behind a set of doors Light knows for certain lead to the dressing room. They do not see him.

"What are you doing here?"

Lawliet doesn't answer. He simply skulks off, trailing after his master.

"Hey, I asked you a question!" Light hollers, and even though the gym is down the right hallway, Light finds himself trailing left, until he sees Lawliet disappear behind, sure enough, his locker room doors.

But they aren't really his anymore, are they? Only one twentieth his in the first place, if you split hairs. One twentieth his, one twentieth Lawliet's, too, now. He presses a hand to the door, and opens it like he's in a horror film.

The dressing room has been thoroughly cleaned since their last game, nothing new there. But Yamamoto's cubby has been completely taken over. His name, written in vinyl, has been stripped from the wood. As has his number. In it's place, a worker is tediously painting in the finishing touches on Lawliet's 82. Which was naturally going to happen.

Then he sees Ukita's cubby, and there is nothing natural about what they're doing.

The staff have given it the same treatment as Yamamoto's. Erased his name, his number, his chicken-scratch graffiti declaring to the world that Mogi smells. They've wiped every last remaining bit of Ukita off the face of the earth. Instead of leaving the cubby empty, three men are installing a mini-fridge.

"You can't just do that!" Light barks, walking right up to Lawliet.

"Actually, I can," he replies, crossing his arms. It really is fascinating someone can be hunched over so far while standing up. "Don't worry, it isn't just for me. I'll keep a bottle of ketchup on hand with your name on it, should you ever so need it."

"This is," Light sputters, cycling between shock and disgust. "This is crazy. Do you have any respect for the game at all? Ukita isn't dead."

"He may as well be," Lawliet chirps back, and that comment makes Light drop his gym bag. It hits the ground with a loud thud, making everyone in the room jump. All chatter among the workers instantly ceases.

"Gentlemen," Watari says, clearing his throat and making for the door, "if you'll join me in the hallway, we can settle the matter of your gratuities."

Light's teeth clench behind a tight smile. Complete control. The workers leave the dressing room.

"Is there something you'd like to say to me?" Lawliet asks, watching the door close on the workers. "You look lost in thought."

They stand only one foot apart from each other. Neither are wearing any protective equipment. There are no witnesses. Light's blood is fucking boiling. It is a mercy to Lawliet that Light isn't tearing into his throat.

"That's Ukita's cubby."

"Was. And now it's a drink station."

Light's nostrils flare. He takes a step closer. "…You're a real selfish piece of shit, aren't you?"

Lawliet smirks, taking a step himself, and straightening his posture. The bastard has a couple inches on him. "I knew Light-kun was quick."

Light Yagami is greater than his sum. A part of him wants to mangle the outlets, so that Lawliet can't ever get another appliance in Ukita's cubby. Another wants to call his father, and ask him who the hell approved this. And another part, far larger than the others, wants to grab Lawliet by the nape of his neck and slam his ugly fucking face into the lockers. Welcome to the team. Our colours are black and red. Look, it's currently gushing out your nose. That's the spirit.

"I look forward to playing with you."

"Go fuck yourself," Light spits.

"Is that a request?" Lawliet whispers.

Light sucks in a breath, disarmed, and Coach Watari simultaneously peels open the door, holding it for someone wheeling in one of those hotel room service trolleys. It is so unexpected, so utterly ridiculous, that it actually temporarily shakes Light out of his rage.

"What's that for?" Light asks.

"Dessert," Lawliet deadpans. "I like to have an assortment."

Light picks his bag up off the floor. He's furious. He's sick. He can't believe in two days he's going to be sharing bench time with this asshole. "Fuck this," he exhales, shaking his head as he bolts through the dressing room doors. He needs to talk to his father, immediately.

When he gets home, Soichiro's car is gone. There is still hot coffee in the machine, and a plate with half eaten toast on the counter. There is also a note.

Phone is on if you need me,
Dad.

He peels the note off the island, crumples it up, and immediately tosses it in the garbage.

"Light, are you awake?"

"Yeah," he says, groggy. Tired of staring at the ceiling. No use in lying. "What's up?"

A sliver of hallway light leaks into his bedroom, only slightly obscured by his father's silhouette. "Can I come in?" he asks, hand hesitantly gripping the doorknob. Maybe racked with guilt. Maybe not at all.

"Sure."

Light sits up, and the mattress dips with Soichiro's weight. One of his hands is behind his back, conspicuously. "Sorry about today," he says. "Had to go into work. Didn't expect to be at the arena all day."

"It's okay."

"What'd you get up to?"

"Not much."

The silence stretches out between them, and Light's entire mouth tenses. It would be so easy to just come out with it. Why did you tell Lawliet to keep his distance? Why would you do that to me?

"Um," Soichiro coughs, awkwardly, and then pulls his hand out from behind his back to reveal a gift box. "Merry Christmas," he says, handing it off to Light.

"What time is it? Shouldn't I open this tomorrow?" he asks, but Soichiro just shrugs, egging him on. He's never liked receiving gifts. Too much pressure to like it. Too much pressure to prove it, too.

Light pops the lid off, reluctantly. Inside it is another box, this one is velvet with a metal hinge.

"It's stainless steel," Soichiro says. "The stepdials seem like they'd be handy during drills."

"Thank you," Light says, before he knows what it is. He cracks it open to reveal a brand new wristwatch. A nice one, at that. Shiny and silver. Something practical, but also sleek. Perfectly catered to his tastes, tastes directly influenced by his father's. In short, it's a perfect gift.

Light holds the box with two hands. Shakily, he sets the box in his lap. "Why?"

"Well." Soichiro shuffles, a little confused. "Because it's Christmas."

Light sighs, shrinking. "Why didn't you tell me about the trade?"

"Oh, um. You know I can't play favourites."

"But I didn't even get to say goodbye," Light argues. Not that he cares one way or the other about Yamamoto. It's just good insurance, in case his throat wavers. "I wouldn't have told anyone. I can keep a secret."

"I know you wouldn't have," Soichiro says, and there's something heavy in his voice. Light wonders if it is regret. "How was Matsuda's this morning?"

"…Fine," Light says. "He says hi."

Soichiro smiles, a tight line, and silence fills the room once more. How vastly different his parents are in a conflict. It's almost funny.

"I'm worried Lawliet is going to be a handful."

"Why?" Light asks, again. This time, he feels like a baby.

"New York seemed pretty eager to get rid of him."

"Is that bad?"

"It's never good. We almost didn't have enough in the budget, but Matsuda's not asking for a pay increase. So—"

"We aren't getting a new goaltender?"

"Nope. So I'm glad you two like each other," Soichiro laughs, almost playfully.

His father was never a good liar, and he looks far too innocent for dancing around such a gargantuan betrayal. It just doesn't make sense, why he's saying all this stuff, and not addressing the elephant in the room.

"When did you find out about the trade?"

His father bristles, only for a moment. "Two weeks ago. But I didn't find out it was official until you did." Soichiro puts more distance between them, adjusting his position. "I'm sorry. It makes complete sense why you'd be upset with me."

"Mm."

"…I was scared he was going to try and knock your teeth out in the third."

This isn't making sense.

"You were?"

"Of course I was," Soichiro adds, huffing and puffing. He looks exhausted, and a little offended. "Kid's a god-damn wildcard. I had to go down there today to sign off on a mini-fridge in the dressing room?"

"W-Why?"

"Stipulation in his contract."

No.

He wants to scream. He wants to whip the wristwatch across the room.

Why are you telling me this?

Why aren't you telling me what you told him?

He's acting like.

Like.

"Oh my god," Light says, out loud.

"What?" Soichiro asks.

Like he never talked to Lawliet at all.

"…Nothing. Just." Light chews on his thumb, where the wound keeps splitting open. It's dry in his room. "What do you think of him?"

"Lawliet?"

Light nods, pinching his thumb between his teeth.

"I'm not sure yet. Hopefully he doesn't give us too much trouble," Soichiro says with a weak smile. He slaps his knees. "Alright. Big week."

"Yeah." Light nods.

Soichiro leaves without saying goodnight, but at least he closes the door, so Light can have some privacy when he screams into his pillow.

Parts on parts on parts. Parts that fit together like shards of broken glass.

The day after tomorrow, he will throw all those scattered parts into a suitcase, wheel it to the airport terminal, and fly to Boston with his teammates. He will tape the shards together, stand for the anthem, and play his first game alongside his arch nemesis.

Thank goodness Light Yagami is more than their sum.

Chapter Text

The soles of his shoes slap against the treadmill. His breaths are harsh, but expertly controlled. Hotel gyms usually have more in the way of professional equipment, but not this one. It's a small, cramped space. No bigger than a bedroom. 

Tomorrow, they're playing the Bulls. There is no time to practice. No knowing what to expect from Lawliet, who's hotel room is right beside Light's.

In the single hour they've been inside the city of Boston, Light has already learned several things about his new teammate:

He refuses to fly economy, or sleep in any hotel room that isn't at least a deluxe suite. He has the patience and diet of a toddler, and from Light's observations, can only stomach about four-to-five hours without consuming something exceedingly sugary. In a nutshell, he is a creature of comfort that demands it at all costs.

When Lawliet said he only flew first-class, Soichiro was furious. You play as a team, you fly as a team, he said. Light thought that'd be the end of it, but Lawliet retaliated by paying for everyone's flight upgrades—and hotel upgrades—just to really rub his nose in it. Soichiro, having his authority undermined, looked like he was going to have a heart attack.

Fury trickles down his back in little droplets. He runs until the muscles in his thighs quiver, until the image of Lawliet buddying up to Coach Aizawa in the hotel lobby is replaced with the screeching of strained muscles. He runs until he can no longer hear Matsuda's praise ringing in his ears. Isn't Lawliet so generous? Isn't Lawliet so kind? Yeah, yeah, blow him, why don't you?

Lawliet, Lawliet, Lawliet. A shorter line at the airport and a bigger bed to sleep in, and everyone starts acting like he's God's gift to the fucking team. Light's not so cheaply bought. He hasn't forgotten what that fuck did to Ukita's cubby.

Tendons aching, he slows himself into a light jog. He tastes blood on his breath from running so hard. The memory of their last game still turns his stomach. How could he be so stupid? How could he let himself be so humiliated?

A whirring sound picks up. It's rhythmic and breezy, a white-noise that's only a hair's breath above imperceptible, or would be if this were a bigger gym. Light turns his head to see the last person he wants to, hunching over a stationary bike.

Panic strikes his lungs. He almost loses his balance. Almost.

"Don't overexert yourself, Light-kun." Lawliet rasps. "It wouldn't be much fun for either of us if you spent tomorrow on the bench."

Light knows better than to respond to Lawliet's provocations, however small, so he presses the big, red STOP button on the treadmill and wipes the sweat from his face with his t-shirt.

"Oh. He is ignoring me."

Light coughs, taking a sip of water.

"…Perhaps he is still upset over the mini-fridge debacle. There won't be any ketchup in it. That was a joke." There's a glint of something in his voice, amused, but wary. Testing the waters, curious to sus him out. Good fucking luck.

"How long have you been here?" he asks, directly.

Light sighs, answering with a curt "hour and a half." One must know when and where to play nice.

The run did him good, but the adrenaline is still coursing. Strong, it rakes over his chest.

"Light-kun missed dinner."

Light shrugs. "I'm good."

"Isn't he hungry? I didn't see him eat anything on the plane."

"I'm good," Light repeats, with more power behind it. The truth is, he isn't sure. It probably isn't normal to not feel hungry after a full day's travel. His stomach floats, nonexistent, a feeling that followed him from the press room all the way to Boston. It's like his body digested the thing for fuel. Like it knew Soichiro planned a team dinner and biologically opted out.

Light throws his arms over his head, spending several minutes stretching out the tightness in his shoulders. He is particularly thorough with them.

"Light-kun?"

"What?"

"How's my form?" Lawliet asks. Big, freakish eyes gaping at him. Waiting for an actual answer.

Light licks the salt off his upper lip. "You're on a bike."

"That I am."

He lets go of the handlebars. Wearing navy bike-shorts that Light recognizes from Raye's memory card. The material makes his thighs kind of shhhwk against one another as he peddles. Several shades off white, his tank top has comically stretched armholes and a small pink stain on the collar. When he leans back and flexes his core, the thin layer of fabric doesn't even come close to covering his ribs.

"Your form is fine," Light eventually answers. "Can't say the same for your outfit."

"I run hot, Light-kun."

Light takes a breath, pressing two fingers to his throat. His heart rate is taking a hair longer than normal to slow. He's still too fired up to go to his room, but Lawliet's presence is also a problem. There's a little black workout bench tucked against the opposing wall with some weights. Perhaps he'll try something different.

Yes. Bench presses. An opportunity to strengthen his shoulders and simultaneously put a little distance between them. For safety's sake; so no one leaves here with a black eye or a broken rib. How considerate he is. Lawliet should be thankful.

Light lies back. Relief floods his legs, happy to be at rest. Yes, this was a good decision. Lawliet's presence is already fading into the background and—

"—Need a spotter?"

"I'm good."

"So he says."

"Yup."

"Alright, then."

God good. He's had gum stuck to his shoe that's less clingy.

Light gets in his first set of reps. He'll do four sets of ten. Maybe five. Slow. Focused. Careful not to overdo it.

"—What's wrong with it?"

"What?"

"Is it the shirt or the shorts?"

"Can you even call that a shirt? At this point," Light grunts, "why even wear one?"

"Mn," Lawliet considers, panting like a dog. "Fair point."

After he finishes his sixth set, Light feels something on the tip of his shoe, along with the unmistakable fwump of what can only be Lawliet's tank top landing on the hotel floor. The whirring of the bike ceases, and then he hears soft footsteps, and what must be a yoga mat unfurling.

"…I would like it if Light-kun went upstairs now."

"I'm not done," Light bites back, feeling smug but certainly not sounding it, as he exhales into his last bench press. Lawliet's body spills onto the yoga mat.

The air feels muggy, thick from exertion. Light sits up, taking deep gulps of air as he reaches for his water bottle. Kicking the shirt off his shoe, he risks a glance to the side and sees Lawliet, sweat-sheened with an arm flung over his eyes like many times before. His face is blotchy, remeniscent of the photos in Raye's memory card made real. Not tired, but something like it.

"Are you okay?"

"Could Light-kun please go upstairs?"

"No," Light snips.

Lawliet mutters something incoherent, and even though his voice has the range and complexity of a piece of paper, it sounds rigid. Off, somehow. His fingertips have a slight tremble to them. They tap the concrete floor, and Light momentarily seizes. It's a gesture he recognizes, but he can't remember where from.

Is this another trap? What's the game, here?

"What was that? I didn't hear you."

"Can you get Watari," Lawliet mumbles, just above a whisper.

"He, uh, he isn't here," Light says, cautious.

He looks bad. Worse than usual, which is really saying something. Light unscrews the cap of his water bottle and taps Lawliet's shoulder with it, softening his tone.

"Have some water. You don't look so good."

Lawliet sits up on shaky ground, accepting the offering with apprehension. "It'll pass," he says, and eagerly gulps. It dribbles down his chest.

Pale skin, sparse with freckles in clusters of two, three and four. He has more on his left side. It's like whatever unknowable creator was making him couldn't decide on how to decorate him and gave up halfway through.

"Slow down," Light says, painting his voice with light amusement. "There's plenty more where that came from."

"Mmn, sorry," Lawliet mutters, barely pausing to take a breath before he's at it again like a kitten to cream. He's really committing to the bit, whatever it is.

His stomach is speckled with those bruises again. Little circular blemishes, not from runaway pucks or sticks. Something else entirely.

After noisily stealing all of Light's water, Lawliet hands the empty vessel back with unfocused eyes. His shaky fingers pluck a mini pack of fruit snacks from his pocket, and he dumps the contents into his mouth, barely chewing as he flops to the floor.

Oh.

At once, all the pieces snap into place.

"You're diabetic."

Lawliet grins, miserably. "All my life."

"…Are you gonna be okay?"

Lawliet shakes the empty package. "In about fifteen minutes or so."

"Cool," Light says, not knowing what else to. He squirms a little on the bench, checking his watch. He can stomach another fifteen mintues.

"Is Light-kun going to tell anyone about this?"

He could. He could run up to the hotel lobby and do it right now. There's a very nosy journalist who Light would love to have in his back pocket.

"Not if you don't want me to," Lights assures in his most convincing, most generous impression of someone who cares.

"I would very much appreciate that," Lawliet says, gruff.

"Do you need, um. Can I do anything? Maybe take you to your room?"

Lawliet mulls over the question for some time. "Yes, I think that's a good idea," he eventually says, grimacing in defeat as he throws his hardly-a-shirt over his head.

"Can you stand?"

"I'm not dying."

"Could've fooled me," Light jokes.

"Yes, well. If I were I suppose I'd probably deserve it for desecrating your friend's cubby. Just catch me if I pass out in the elevator. Or don't."

Lawliet rises to his feet, and a small, strange relief trickles down Light's spine. It follows him all the way to their hotel doors.

"We really stunk up the elevator," Light says, fiddling with his keycard.

"I quite like your natural musk," Lawliet teases. Owl-eyes locked on him with a horror-film intensity once more.

"Well yours reeks," Light responds, fingers slipping on his keycard. "Are you sure you're gonna be okay tonight?"

"I'll manage," Lawliet says, smiling around the words.

"Okay."

"Alright."

Neither of them seem to move. The lactic acid is beginning to turn Light's muscles to concrete. "See you on the ice."

"Goodnight, Light-kun."

Light does have a good night, even with no food in his belly and Matsuda snoring one bed over. For the first time in a long, long while, his sleep is not dreamless.

His thoughts drift to tomorrow's game. The game after that. And after that. Well-oiled cogs in the shape of men, slaughtering armies of six. He dreams of the Stanley Cup Final, and the thousands of people who travelled just to catch a glimpse of him in the flesh. Behold, and kiss the ring.

He dreams of Lawliet, bowing at his feet. Of hoising the cup over his head, brimming with honey. Dousing himself with it's sugary sweetness. Lawliet lapping at his toes, moved to tears. Sweet, he says.

Sweet, he dreams.

If only morning could be as sweet. Light's jolted to consciousness with a series of explosive bangs against his hotel door. People are shouting. Light can't tell how many.

"What the hell?" Matsuda mutters half in his pillow.

Light throws himself out of bed and races to the door, checking his watch. "Matsuda, wake up!" he hollers, looking through the peephole. "We overslept."

"Sounds like a tornado outside," Matsuda says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What's going on?"

Light reaches for the doorknob, but something heavy tears down the hallway and he recoils back. The shouting picks up. Three voices. Maybe four. And then there are fast, desperate hands banging against his door.

"Light-kun, please let me in."

Light cracks it open, bracing, and Lawliet bursts into the room with his suitcase in tow. It's only halfway zipped and scuffed to shit. One corner looks covered in chalk.

"Thank you," he says, hurried, dragging the suitcase into the middle of the room and abandoning it on the floor. He's wearing a bathrobe that's at least three sizes too big and his hair is soaking wet. It's dripping onto the carpet.

"What's going on?" Light asks, unable to close the door even if he wanted because Mogi's now barging in too. Wonderful.

"You little fucker!" Mogi bellows. Coach Aizawa trails in after him, muttering something into his phone and yanking Mogi by the collar. Spooked, a sopping wet Lawliet jumps into Matsuda's bed and ducks under the covers, sending Matsuda into a squealing fit. "I'm ticklish, stop! Jeez!"

"You need to calm down!" Aizawa barks, to no avail.

"Will someone tell me what's wrong?" Light asks, frustration creeping into his voice.

Mogi's a runaway train, rushing to get the words out. Potentially lethal if you get in his way, too. "This morning, I go downstairs. I get breakfast. But I wanna like, y'know, like wait til I'm showered to eat it. So I'm coming into our room and the guy's wearing my towel."

"…Okay."

"And he poured himself a bath and used all of my shower gel. I don't have anymore fucking shower gel! That's my fucking towel!"

"I like the bubbles," Lawliet mutters from under the blankets. "He said I could use it."

"Not all of it!"

"Well that's hardly any reason to—" Aizawa starts, futily.

"—I'm not done," Mogi huffs. "When I finally do get out of the shower, I go to eat breakfast, my danishes are gone and the fucker is wiping crumbs off his face!"

Lawliet pops his head out. "Light-kun wants you in a calorie deficit. You said so last night."

"I'll put you in a deficit," Mogi sneers, turning to Aizawa. "Coach. I'm sorry, but I can't room with this guy."

"Uhhhh," Aizawa says, wide eyed. "Let's…just, um, figure this out after. We need to be at the arena in thirty minutes."

"He ate all my fucking danishes!" Mogi barks, and Light knows this isn't really about the danishes. Piss drunk at Hostage, he did warn the team that Lawliet was a loose canon. It's danishes today, who knows what tomorrow.

"We can get something on the road," Light soothes. "We need to get ready."

They really do. But everyone is apparently more interested in hearing themselves talk, so no one listens. They just bark over each other like dogs while Lawliet imitates a pile of dirty laundry. So loud, they don't notice Matsuda turning off his back up alarm.

So loud, they don't hear Soichiro knocking on Light's hotel door.

"Boys."

The argument ceases completely.

With disturbingly measured footsteps, Soichiro steps into the eye of the storm and silences it. Light used to think his presence alone could command a hurricane to stillness.

"Would anyone care to explain why there are holes in the hallway?"

Lawliet stares at the floor. Mogi scrunches his nose. Light squirms in his nightclothes, staring at the suitcase in the middle of the room. Not scuffed with chalk, but remnants of drywall. Light didn't put holes in the walls. He's done nothing wrong.

"No one is going to fess up?" Soichiro says, peering over his glasses.

He's done nothing wrong.

"What happened, Light?"

"There's been a…disagreement between Lawly and Mogi," Aizawa jumps in, tugging at his collar. "But we've come to a resolution."

"Being?"

"Being," Aizawa says, really drawing it out. "Being."

"Being I'm not rooming with him," Mogi says. "I'm sorry, Coach. I can't. He eats all my danishes and steals my shit. I need a new floormate."

Soichiro scrunches his moustache, going quiet. There's a moment where Light thinks he's going to yell. His body braces for the sound, but it doesn't come.

"You boys are a team, you know that?"

"Yes sir," everyone says.

"It's Mr. Lawliet's first game day. And this the kind of hospitality we show him?"

The room responds with stillness.

"You boys rely on each other. You depend on each other. Not just out there," Soichiro says with a firm finger pointing to the hallway. "So, here's what we are going to do."

With fifteen minutes before they need to be at the arena, Soichiro asks Light to switch rooms with Lawliet, and to do so immediately.

Fine by him. He'd rather bunk with Mogi, anyway.

"COMEEEEE ONNNN GUCCI GAAAANNNGGGGG!!!! MAKE SOME NOOOO-OOOIIIIIISEEEEEE!!!!!"

The arena thunders, a sea of yellow and black as far as Light can see from the player's tunnel. According to Mogi, the Boston Bulls have contracts with some of the wealthiest players in the entire league. Some of the nastiest, too.

"Gucci gang?" Light asks. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Higuchi's their team captain. Boston's pride and joy. Total titfucker," Mogi says, finishing the last bite of a takeaway danish he had stashed in his glove. Light doesn't know if being a titfucker is a good or a bad thing, but if he had to wager, it's only bad when it isn't Mogi doing the tit fucking.

"You guys know each other?" Light asks.

"Ehh, not really. Prick in interviews, though."

"Can't shoot a puck to save his life," Coach Aizawa chirps, patting Matsuda on the back. "Which ought to be good for us."

"Yay," Matsuda laughs, nervously. "They totally don't look scary at all."

"Remember your positions. Don't fall for their tricks. And Mr. Lawliet," Soichiro hollers from the very back of the tunnel. "Light's on the first line out. You're on second. Watch how we do things. Wait for his signal. Call for help if you need it."

Lawliet gives a half-assed thumbs up, soured from being banished to the second line. It took some deliberating in the locker room over who would open the game, but Light managed to sweet talk everyone into siding with him. He's positively giddy about it, but maintains a firm expression. Once he's shown Lawliet what he's made of, Light's ninety-nine percent sure Soichiro will make him team captain.

The lights go down. The crowd swells. "It's time," Coach Aizawa rouses. "What are we gonna do?!"

"Kill 'em!" Everyone shouts.

"What are we gonna do?!"

"KILL 'EM!"

The Killers drive their sticks into the concrete, and the vibrations rattle through everyone's bones. A pounding drum rebelling against the jumbotron's emcee.

When they pour out onto the ice, the crowd goes wild. Baring their teeth and screaming bloody murder. As goes for the opposing team on the players' bench, not unlike a pack of rabid dogs. How very lucky for the city of Boston that they're kenneled.

Boston hates New York. They hate Lawliet, especially. The man known as Gucci drives a finger across his throat like a knife.

Lawliet, unfazed, blinks from the bench.

After the anthem, Gucci greets Light by hawking a fat wad of spit onto the ice floor. He's got pretty severe crows feet, a receding hairline, and a gold plated tooth.

"Hey, wonder kid," he jeers, "I'm gonna knock out every one of your teeth and make 'em into a pretty little necklace."

Light merely scans the man in front of him, stonefaced. He will not be scared into submission by some washed-up deadbeat in a yellow jersey.

"I see how it is," Gucci says, smirking around his mouthguard, yellowed from use. He's very obviously a smoker. "Little bitch boy scared to play with the big dogs?"

Light considers himself to be resilient, resourceful. An adequate preparer and talented observer. These skills have propelled him forward, leagues above his peers. He makes sure this fact is known, right as the puck is dropped.

Light crouches, without a word, and snakes the puck behind him to Mogi.

Get possession. Get moving. It's all very standard. But Light learns quickly that Gucci's strategy is anything but standard. He charges Light, which is…a choice. Light has nowhere to go, so he stays crouched and charges forward, too. Emerging victorious on the other side, and knocking Gucci on his ass in the process.

"That's roughing!" Gucci screams. "That's a penalty!"

"No it isn't you dumb fuck!" Mogi barks behind, passing the puck to Light. Light bolts with it, so fast he can't hear the crowd anymore. All he can hear is his own breath in his ears. He's in their zone. He just has to find an opening, and then he he'll shoot.

Or at least he would be able to, if three of Gucci's goons weren't suddenly charging him, too.

"Backup! I need backup!" Light yells, well past the blue line, but the defensemen have made themselves into a wall and they're closing in. At this rate, they're all going to crash into each other.

"Somebody help him! Get fucking in there!" Coach Aizawa screams from the bench. Light looks back, and sees Lawliet sucking on his thumb, almost joyfully. For a second, anyway. Then he's knocked flat on his ass just as quickly as Gucci. The stands yelp in rapturous glee.

"Night, Light," one of Gucci's goons chirps, hawking another fat wad of spit. This time, it lands on his eyeshield.

"Fuck!" Light exclaims, wiping it with his glove, but it's just smearing the spit around. Vision blurred, he has no choice but to skate to the bench with a hand in the air, signalling to Lawliet that he's tapping out.

Matsuda heaves in the distance, doing a pretty good job of blocking every one of Gucci's shots.

"Back in the net, Matty! Back in the net!" Aizawa yells, so far over the bench he runs the risk of falling. Rubber snaps sharply against the goalpost. Bodies rattle the glass. Matsuda's certainly holding his own, but he's being risky with it.

"God dammit," Light says, taking a seat. Sitting out this early was not the plan.

"I've learned some very interesting things watching our first line," Lawliet says, hopping over the bench. "But I've played Gucci before, many times. I think I'll just stick to what I know."

"What's that?" Light says, ripping off his helmet with gritted teeth.

"Scoring."

Lawliet skates into the shit show that is the Killers current defensive zone. Every last player is crowded around the net, fighting for their life. The Bulls are body-checking everyone left, right and centre. The referee isn't calling shit.

Lawliet dives into the fray and dips down, fearlessly. One of Gucci's goons knocks his helmet off, but he manages to get the puck anyway. Light sucks in a breath.

"Wow, that was quick," Aizawa says.

"Let's hope there's more where that came from," Soichiro says, not one to hedge his bets. For once, Light feels positively about it. Let's remember who's really captaining this team, here.

Lawliet is on the other side of the rink in record time. "He's on a breakaway," Aizawa says, as if Light doesn't have fucking eyes.

Soichiro gasps, leaning on the boards. "Atta boy. Bring it home."

He's not just on a breakaway. He's lightning fast. Carving into the ice like it was made for him, and Light finds himself leaning over the boards, too.

Boston's goaltender has plenty of time to prepare, but no allies to protect him from Lawliet.

He doesn't deke, doesn't try any sneaky little tricks his former team is famous for. Lawliet drives straight, and gets right up into the crease. When he shoots, Light doesn't even see it. They have to slow down the footage to make sure it actually bounced in.

Sirens blare. Garbage rains down onto the ice. The crowd goes fucking batshit. Lawliet spends his victory lap ducking and dodging oncoming beer cans and balled up napkins. The air cuts through his matted, shaggy mop, and his mouthguard flops out of his mouth.

He grins up at the scoreboard, and then at Light.

"Good goal," Light says, politely, once he's close enough to hear it.

Lawliet hops over the bench and saddles up right next to Light. "If Light-kun would like, I would be happy to teach him my methods."

"No thanks," he dismisses, hopping onto the ice.

"Is he going to be okay? Gucci is quite aggressive today."

Boston's left winger accidentally trips, shooting the puck down the wall. Light catches it with his stick.

"I'll manage," he says with a smirk. And he does. With two more goals scored before the end of the first period, Light manages just fine.

Some locker rooms have a faint aroma of sweat. Most don't smell at all. Boston has the uniqueness of smelling like death. The tiles are slippery, presumably from weeks without a cleaning. It's disgusting, but Light carries himself to the shower with his head held high. He scored twice today. Lawliet only scored once.

Water hits his skin. He inhales like he's been shot.

"Oh yeah, there's no hot water." Mogi snickers, turning off his own showerhead, shivering.

"I think I hate Boston," Light says, teeth rattling. "This is the worst locker room I've ever seen."

"Worst in the league," Mogi tuts, towelling off on the other side of the room. Still well within earshot. It's just one big pit. Half of it is lockers, the other half is showers. No doors. No partitions. No privacy. Not even a hook to hang your towel. On top of that, only two in eight showerheads are actually functional.

Light soaps up as fast as possible, which is proving difficult. It's so cold, his hands are cramping.

The locker room door swings open, and Lawliet skulks in just as Mogi is asking if the guys want to get hammered in the hotel. They lock eyes, and Lawliet ends up moving his stuff to the furthest corner from Mogi. It is, in a word, awkward.

"Don't mind me," Lawliet says, disrobing.

Light stares at the ceiling.

"Uhh," Mogi drawls, keen on keeping the festivities invite-only, apparently. "...See you guys at the hotel. Good game." He darts out of the locker room without another word and the guys follow. Which leaves just the two of them left.

Light pours some shampoo in his hand, but struggles to get a decent lather. Closing his eyes, he hears Lawliet's voice. It is far closer than it was several moments ago.

"Good game, Light-kun," Lawliet utters, cozying up to the showerhead right next to his. Creepy, but the only option considering the showerhead situation. He is squeezing an obscene amount of shower gel onto a loofah from the sounds of it. Light wonders if it is Mogi's.

"I thought you would've showered already, you have seniority," Light says, dubiously. It's customary for the rookie to warm up the showers for the veterans, and take whatever hot water is left, but it's less a rule and moreso a common courtesy. One Light stands by. One he wonders if Lawliet's even aware of.

"Not on this team." Lawliet says.

Light quickly rinses out his shampoo, eyes firmly closed. Who knows what's in the water.

"Mogi is hosting celebrations in his room tonight."

"Oh, yeah. He usually does when we win," Light says, tense as he runs his hand through his hair. He can feel every pore turn to gooseflesh. The water is freezing.

"Does Light-kun wish to celebrate?"

"…I dunno," Light says, squeezing conditioner in his hand, fearing that Lawliet's going to ask for an invitation. The bottle is slippery and the plastic is shit. Nothing's really coming out. "We've got an early flight tomorrow, and it'll be my first time playing Montreal. I shouldn't stay up late."

"Won't that be difficult with a party taking place?"

"I'll figure it out."

"…Would he like to sleep with me?"

The bottle nearly slips out of Light's hands. Scrambling, he puts it back on the shelf with eyes partially opened.

"That is to say, if he doesn't want to be up late, he's welcome to stay in his old room. There is a couch I can sleep on."

"That'sokayI'mdone," Light says, abruptly walking to his locker. His flip flops snap harshly against the tile.

"Light-kun didn't condition his hair?"

He sure didn't, and it squeaks uncomfortably when he towels off. "Their soap isn't very good. I'll just shower later."

"Are you sure? I have some to spare if he so wishes."

Yes. He is sure he doesn't want to share body wash with Lawliet. Should that not go without saying?

A vile sharpness kicks up in his gut. He dresses quickly, and is outside, hailing a cab before Lawliet's even out of the shower. The sooner he gets to his room, the sooner he can clean off properly, get to sleep, and get the fuck out of Boston.

Chapter Text

"Two back to back wins in Boston and Montreal. And you scored twice in both games. Not bad, Yagami. How'd it feel?" Naomi asks, a freelance sports journalist who is currently interviewing him for The Athletic.

"Well, it was definitely a team effort," Light says, adjusting his ball cap.

"You always say that."

"Well," he quips back. "It always is."

Their conversation flows easily, until they are interrupted by two hockey fans—in Montreal jerseys—pounding on the glass windows outside the cafe, for the fifth time that hour.

"…Sorry I couldn't get us a more private table," Naomi says, which is a little silly considering there aren't any private tables at this particular cafe. One she chose herself, no less. On the bright side, it's close to the hotel and kind of upscale. The few customers that are here don't seem to take any interest in Light, or the hyenas outside.

"It's alright," Light assures, slouching a little in his chair. "I really don't mind."

The onlookers eventually give up. Naomi does not.

"So. Let's talk about your new team," she says, turning a page in a little black book. "How'd it feel to shutout Montreal?"

"Great, really great," Light says emphatically. "It was my first time playing them. They put up a great fight, but our guys were hustling."

"Some more than others, I'm sure," Naomi remarks, in a very specific tone that Light's come to know as the 'I'm not going to pry, but I will if I have to' voice that all reporters have. Hers just happens to be more forthright than others, which Light prefers.

"You sound like you're alluding to something, Naomi."

"I might be."

That confirms it. He takes a quick peek at her writing on the page, and underlined three times in bright red ink is one letter. L.

Light rolls his tongue over his teeth. Three instances come to mind:

One. She could want to know more about Lawliet's stupid little moustache shtick. Apparently that's just something he does every time he's in Montreal. Just to piss the other guys off, and apparently it works every time. Not much to write home about there. He's just an asshole.

Two. Maybe she is interested in Light's time in the box (which was entirely unwarranted). Lawliet put him there by always having his fucking stick in the way when Light would try to steal the puck from Montreal. It was like Lawliet was playing his own personal version of keep-away. Light had to play a little harder, push a little rougher just for a chance at the puck.

He took a ten minute penalty for interference after shoving someone's stick away to try to get to Lawliet, at least according to the shithead referee. Light held his ground, sure, but he wasn't impeding anyone else's ability to get the puck. If anything, he's certain that Montreal boxed him because that's the only way the sorry lot of them would be able to get a goal in. And they couldn't even do that.

Three. Lawliet also got a ten minute penalty for interference—this one deserved—and Light had to endure eight of them in his company, having his performance scrutinized to the t. It is due to Light's sheer force of will that they didn't break out into a scrap right there. The next time they're boxed together, he may not be so merciful.

He isn't really interested in broaching any one of those topics voluntarily, so Light grins wide at Naomi, and the onlookers, and leans back in his chair.

"I'm an open book," he says, ignoring the rising thrum in his chest. Naomi's a strong writer who respects the players, at least Light can gather as much from her articles. There is nothing to be worried about.

Naomi flips to a page in her book where a handful of questions are pre-written in that same red ink. She uses her pen as a guide as she reads aloud. "Last game, it was looking pretty heated for a few minutes there in the box. Any insights you'd like to share with the fans as to what was going through your mind?"

"You mean with Lawliet," Light clarifies. Sour remnants of coffee stick to his tongue. He struggles to form a thought that isn't so. This is a feature spread.

"You two were getting awful chummy," she says with a sardonic playfulness. "Is it safe to say the trade has been tough on the team?"

"I…" Light begins. "He doesn't talk with the press, so I don't really—"

"—You want to be respectful. I understand that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I've been a reporter for a long time," she conceded with a solemn frown, closing her book. "I should know that some questions aren't worth asking. Even though my boss is twisting my arm to get a quote out of one of you. I'll keep things kosher."

"Umm, thank you," Light says, a little defeated. His face is plastered on buses, in toy stores and subway cars. He is the NHL's golden boy. Lawliet's name follows him like a cruel shadow, skulking behind the sun. Impossible to eclipse, sure, but still a pain in his ass.

"Let's move on. Mind if I get a photo?"

"I'd love that."

Ample greenery and big open windows to highlight his even complexion, Light smiles for the camera with ease. The sun is setting, painting him in bronze, and even Naomi takes a beat to admire her camerawork in the viewfinder. He already knows they turned out well. He is having a great hair day.

Traffic creeps by. Naomi watches him watch it, and snaps a few more pictures. Her camera is small and unassuming. It hardly makes a noise when she clicks the shutter button.

"So I really only have one more question here," she says, putting her things away. "How was recovery? As smooth as expected?"

This is a question Light has answered many times, over many post-game press hits. It would make sense that Naomi is asking more as a courtesy than anything else. So he gives her a stock-answer. Macros. Physio. Surgeries he's thankful not to need, that whole shtick. She jots none of it down.

"Wow. You're quite impressive." she says.

"Oh, I don't know about that."

"I do. It's my job to know your stats. Are you always so disciplined?"

"Um, I want to say no, but, yeah." Light laughs, and it feels real. He is the picture of humility. "I think a lot of the guys would say I'm probably the most anal on the team. I'm always kind of watching what everybody eats."

Naomi grins. "And what are they eating?"

This question Light basically handed to her on a silver platter. So he placates her with varoius anecdotes. Barbecue versus ketchup flavoured chips. Danishes, and how many different kinds there are. He does not mention fruit snacks.

"Anything you'd like to ask me before I get out of your hair?"

"Well, I was a little curious what made you decide to reach out."

It seems like a perfectly innocent thing to ask, but when her brow kicks up, Light considers that may not be the case.

In a most miniscule and inexplicable way, the energy seems to shift to something…still friendly, but a slightly different shade of it. Her back straightens a fraction of an inch. Her tone dips a mere semitone.

"What made me reach out…to one of the most sought-after rookies in NHL history?" she deflects. Very well, if he's being honest.

It's just that it was funny timing is all, a last minute thing that Takada had requested of him a mere thirty minutes before he was supposed to see Les Miserables live on stage with the guys. Another "generous" gift to the team from Lawliet, and the strangest one yet. Prior to this interview, he wasn't sure if he even wanted to go.

"Sorry," Light backpeddles. "I guess that's kind of a silly question."

"It isn't," she says, picking up her journal and giving it a little shake. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that this thing can kill careers. It's a good thing, to be proactive in that sense."

"Thanks," Light says, and his smile is earnest, even as they are interrupted by two young girls. They sheepishly approach their table, wearing Killers jerseys. They both ask how he is liking Montreal. Only one asks if he has a girlfriend. He snaps a quick photo with the both of them, and evades their question just as impressively as Naomi had his.

"I hope that wasn't too disappointing," Light says with a small grin.

"I'm not that kind of journalist."

And thank God she isn't. If he has to see one more poorly photoshopped picture of him and Lawliet duking it out WWE style he might just toss his laptop in a lake. In fact, in the dozen or so articles Naomi Misora has published with Light's name in them, not one mentioned Lawliet's alongside it.

Every time he's interviewed, Light feels a little like he's giving a part of himself away. Naomi, unprompted, promised to take care of the Yagami name, and publish a piece that they can both be proud of. So he walks back to the hotel with a pep in his step, and for the first time since the beginning of his career, doesn't rake over the last hour in scrutinizing detail. He just enjoys the winter wind, and the solitude it brings.

Solitude. Hockey's greatest, most scarce commodity. When Light returns to an empty hotel room, he is sure to enjoy every minute of it.

Hair still damp from lounging in the bath, Light's head sinks into his pillow. He exhales all his excess anxiety, and inhales darkness. Black clouds his vision as he drifts into unconsciousness.

Naomi was pleasant in person, if a little guarded. At least she kept to her word and didn't press him too harshly on anything, even though she certainly could have. Word got out about Boston, and "whatever shit show" went down to leave holes in the hallway walls.

She was also kind enough not to push about the ticking timebomb that is Montreal; with Lawliet and Matsuda bunking only one room over. These double rooms don't exactly provide much in the way of privacy, being that they have a connecting door between them.

Deep red blooms behind Light's eyelids. He hears something low and distorted, and very far away.

"I missed you."

Dreamlike, a voice rumbles.

"They're still out," it says. "I left at intermission."

Light's eyes only partially flutter open, heavy with sleep. The hotel tv is off. It's still pitch black in his room.

"I wish I could see you."

His vision adjusts, and the low rumblings coming from the other room warp into familiarity. Groggy, Light slowly comes to consciousness to see that someone is here. In real life. Talking on the phone in the other room. Their connecting door is cracked open, just wide enough for Light to see Lawliet lying on top of his bed. He's turned on a small table lamp, painting everything in soft amber. A sliver of warmth cutting into the darkness.

"Oh…just sweats."

He's leaned against the headboard. Relaxed. Hardly even shrimp-like, as he twirls the cord of the hotel phone between his spindly fingers. Unhurried, it swings, shiny and reflective.

"Gray," he says with a low snicker. "Why do you ask?"

Light watches, half asleep, in the way he often dreams. Suspended and omnipotent.

"How long must I wait?" Lawliet asks, and there's almost a pained quality to it. Lazily, he fiddles with the drawstrings of his sweatpants. A dull, brownish gray colour in the amber light.

Silence shrouds them both, and then he hums into the line, sweetly.

"No. I can't."

Light moves. He experimentally adjusts his position to see if the mattress makes any sound. These beds are smaller, firmer than most hotel beds. Prone to disrupting sleep and causing aches and pains if he stays still for too long. He was spoiled back in Boston.

"I'm not sure when they're getting back. Mogi said something about drinks."

Lawliet drags his free hand across his lower abdomen, lightly scratching at the sparsely hairy skin, and Light finds himself copying the motion. The sensation is soothing under his fingertips. He's sure he could fall asleep again in minutes.

"I don't believe it was an open invitation."

Lawliet's voice, much like the lighting of his hotel room, is sugar soft. The hand on his stomach stops moving. Instead of playing with the drawstrings, it toys now with the waistband of his sweats.

"I wish I could touch you," he utters into the line. Eyes closed, he slides his hand underneath his waistband, and lets out a small, airy breath.

Whatever drowsiness Light felt completely vanishes.

Up until this point, it hadn't occured to him to, say, maybe announce his presence. Or get up and close the connecting door.

"Yeah. It feels good."

Half lidded, Lawliet absently stares into the crack in the doorway. His mouth hangs open the way it does on the ice when he's tired. But instead of hurling shitty little comments or sucking on fruit snacks, he's only panting. Soft little sounds in perfect synchronicity with his hips.

"Are you touching yourself?" he whispers, low and gravelled.

Light sucks in a breath. The hand on his stomach sticks to the skin, clammy and wet. He ought to turn down the thermostat.

"It's alright if you want to."

Light rocks into the mattress, obliques sore and stiff from two back to back games in a series of three. He should have blow dried his hair. It wouldn't feel so tacky against his forehead if he did. Maybe, if Sayu's not home, he can steal his back from hers tomorrow when he's in the city.

"It's okay."

His pinky sits heavy on the waistband of his boxers. Silently, he slips it underneath—

"Oh fuck!"

"Careful, Matty! Christ! You trying to kill me?"

Voices boom in the hallway. The hotel door buckles forcefully, and Light's body shoots straight as an arrow. Bright white light floods in from the hallway, and Mogi tiptoes into the bedroom as gracefully as a bull in a china shop. Something sharp, crashes, and lies in pieces on the floor.

"Shit. You awake, man?"

Light squeezes his eyelids shut, ignoring the hideous pounding of his heart. His ears rumble from the force, warm at their tips. The ruby red behind his eyelids abruptly turns black, as Mogi closes the connecting door to Lawliet's room. He stumbles to his own bed, and plops on top of the covers without changing out of his day clothes. In the other room, he can hear Matsuda doing the same, and asking Lawliet a question. The pulsing in his ears makes it impossible to hear if Lawliet answers. If he hung up the phone. If he crawled under the covers before anyone walked in.

Light can't picture anything happening on the other side of that door. He is too busy getting back to sleep as quickly as possible, with both hands tucked firmly under his pillow.

The phone rings. It is still dark.

"Hello?"

"This is your 5:30 wakeup call, Mr. Yagami."

"Thank you," Light says.

Discomforted, he finds that his boxers are wet. Sticky, from a dream he cannot remember; he makes no effort to recall it as he showers.

One hour later, he's showered, shaved, and dug bits of broken glass out of the carpet that Mogi missed. Now, he is doing a once-over of his hotel room to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything. The connecting door hangs open, and though there is no one in sight, Lawliet's suitcase sits open on the bed. The floor creaks when Light walks over to it. 

"Hello?" Lawliet calls from the bathroom.

"Hey, uh," Light hollers. "Are you almost ready to go?"

Lawliet answers with silence, and any other day, Light might feel relief. Today, he feels off kilter.

"I was doing room checks," Light explains, suddenly feeling uncomfortable and imposing. "Everything okay?"

"Yes. Um." Lawliet pauses. "I think I need…I need a little assistance with something."

He pictures gray sweatpants and amber lighting, and feels the immediate rush to run downstairs. "Can this wait? The bus is leaving soon."

"Mmn, no. Not really."

Lawliet inches open the bathroom door, still in his clothes from last night. A small, black toiletries bag sits open on the counter behind him, next to a ziplock bag full of various miscellaneous medical supplies.

"I just," Lawliet says, pausing to chew on his thumb. "Watari normally…It just, it always hurts when I do it."

Light doesn't really understand what he's implying, but then Lawliet opens the bathroom door fully. Light sees the vials. Then the needles.

"Perhaps, you could lend a helping hand?"

"…You're joking."

"What is the joke?" Lawliet asks, owl eyed, and he looks so pathetic that Light actually feels his gut twist.

"You want me to help you with your insulin?"

"If Light-kun isn't up for the challenge, I suppose he can go be with the team downstairs."

"Cool—"

"—And I can take the next bus into Ottawa solo, though I may be late for tonight's game. I may not even get to play at all, depending on the state I arrive in."

"Good god," Light exhales, rolling his eyes and stomping into the bathroom. "Fine. What do I need to do?"

Light turns on the taps to wash his hands. He hasn't a clue how to properly give someone a needle, but the thought of abandoning Lawliet in the bathroom feels just as bad as the thought of stabbing him. Maybe even worse. Which is new.

He suds up his hands with hot water, and makes sure to get into every nook and cranny. There's a whole mess of supplies scattered on the counter, intimidatingly so. Small boxes, little glass vials, and pieces of colourful plastic that just look like garbage. In Lawliet's hand is a white syringe with an orange cap. After Light has dried his hands, Lawliet hands it over.

"I've measured the appropriate units. All you have to do is administer it here," Lawliet says, lifting up the hem of his shirt and pinching it between his teeth. He tears open a small alcohol swab and rubs the little square over his tummy. "Preferably two inches away from my bellybutton, at a ninety degree angle."

"Okay," Light says, taking a seat on the side of the bathtub. "So…what do I do?"

"Pinch the fatty part, and stick it in."

"I," Light begins to say, and then swallows. "I'm not sure I can do this."

"You flatter me, Light-kun. But there's more than enough fat to pinch. If you're that concerned, the upper thigh is also acceptable." As if it is a perfectly acceptable thing to do, Lawliet begins to pull down his sweatpants. He isn't wearing underwear.

"No, nope! This is fine," Light exclaims, locking his gaze onto the tip of the needle.

A familiar clamminess coats his fingers. Lawliet stares at him, stone faced as always. Even as Light reaches out and pinches the skin of his tummy, Lawliet doesn't react at all.

"Is that right?" Light asks, looking at the skin. It changes colour between his fingers. White and pink and and a little bit red. He still hasn't given him the injection.

"Perfect, Light-kun. That's perfect."

Heat climbs up his neck. Needle. Skin. Needle. Skin. Easy.

Stomach twisting uncomfortably, Light suppresses the urge to bolt by driving the tip of the syringe forward. It sinks into Lawliet's skin like butter.

"Now what?"

"Now you push it in."

"Okay," Light says, shakily, pumping the clear liquid into his body. "Does it hurt?"

"It does not."

"Cool."

"Mmn, yes," Lawliet says. "Cool. And now you have to hold it for ten seconds."

"Okay."

It's quiet, uncomfortably so, in Lawliet's bathroom. So Light speaks. He counts, out loud. It feels a little stupid, but anything is better than Lawliet's watchful eyes and laboured breaths.

"Eight."

"Very good. Nine." Lawliet adds, and then he feels really stupid.

"Ten," they both say, and Light withdraws the needle.

"Is that good?"

"Yes, you can let go now."

"Cool," Light says, pulling his hand away like he'd been holding onto a hot stove. His forehead feels damp, still.

"Thank you for helping me," Lawliet says, and his tone slips to something that reminds him of the night before, only a fraction. "I wanted to enlist the help of a friend. But, well. I suppose you already know that I don't have many of those. I won't bother you with this again, I promise."

Darkness coils in Light's tummy, small and so very heavy.

Lawliet is a shithead on the ice, that much is true. But off the ice, it's starting to feel like there's a different story present. He's known for being a loner, at least according to Mogi, but that doesn't really add up, does it? Here he is, buying stageplay tickets and hotel upgrades for his team. Asking for nothing in return. Suffering in silence, taking injections in a hotel bathroom.

"I can always help you with this," Light says, "if you don't want to do it alone."

"Please don't patronize me," Lawliet replies, stuffing all his supplies back into his ziploc, and swiftly abandoning Light in the bathroom.

"No, really." Light follows him all the way to his suitcase, and then down the hallway. "I mean it. Anytime you need help with this stuff. I'm happy to help."

"Why?"

"Wh," Light stutters, caught off-guard. "B-because we're friends?"

"Friends?"

"Yeah." Light laughs, and there's a sliver a trepidation in it. "I mean. Of course we're friends."

"Does Light-kun promise that he is being truthful?" Lawliet asks.

"…Yeah."

"He wishes to help me?"

"Umm. Yeah. Anytime."

"Even if I were to have a drop in the middle of the night? He would come to aid me?"

"I don't know what that means…but, yeah. Sure. We're teammates, right?"

"I thought he said friends?"

"Oh my gh," Light huffs, annoyed. Punctuating his point by carrying Lawliet's suitcase for him, not fully understanding why. Just yes and-ing himself as he drags it down the hallway. "Yes, friends. Okay?"

"Alright," Lawliet concedes, walking behind.

The rest of their walk is met with silence and squeaky wheels, from the hotel hallway all the way to overhead compartment of the bus. When Light finally relaxes into his seat, there is nowhere for Lawliet to sit but beside him. Which shouldn't be a bother. Friends sit with friends, and they are friends. So he has said, and that little thought makes the darkness in his tummy coil even tighter than in the hotel bathroom.

He's never had a friend, not really. But if he did, he'd imagine they would help each other with their insulin injections, and do so in a discreet manner. They would get on each other's nerves, often, the way Sayu and her friends often would over the years. Friends would respect each other's privacy, and evade nosy questions from nosy journalists, which Light supposes he's already doing.

Friends, the darkness whispers, would make sure to sleep with the connecting door closed.

Yesterday, Light did not have any friends. Today, whether he likes it or not, he just might have one.

Chapter Text

"Lawl—ugh, stop. You're wiggling."

"I'm just getting comfortable," Lawliet mutters, stealing another inch of precious seat space. If Light were any closer to the window, he'd be going through it.

"We've been on the road for ten minutes already," he says, fiddling with one half of a pair of earphones. Lawliet has the other. His idea. "Just let me pull down the armrest."

"I'll have no room."

How the fuck do you think I feel?

Lawliet tucks his knees to his chest. The only way his feet stay put is if he props one under Light's thigh. It sends a jolt of discomfort up his entire right side. Lawliet doesn't ask him if it's okay, and Light doesn't say it's not.

"See you in exactly one Casablanca."

The drive from Montreal to Ottawa is roughly two hours and three minutes long, or one viewing of Casablanca (director's cut). According to Lawliet, it is both a crime that Light has never seen it and a privilege that Lawliet gets to be the one to show it to him, on account of them being friends and all. Lawliet punctuates the declaration by offering Light a warm fruit snack from his pocket. Light politely declines.

Friends, Light waxes, and for some reason the thought turns his insides to concrete. After last night, and this morning, the last thing he wants to do is snuggle up next to his friend and watch a movie. Maybe he can switch seats with Matty, or spend the next two hours hiding in the bus bathroom.

One of the wheels hits a bump in the road, and the foot under Light's thigh twitches. He yips in surprise.

"Light-kun?"

"I think I might just try to sleep, but thanks for the offer," Light says nervously, as he hands back the earbud. The bus is beginning to feel like a coffin. The best thing he can do to get through it is just play dead.

Lawliet looks at the earbud briefly, and with a curt 'alright,' focuses his attention on the little screen affixed to the ceiling. Light has no choice but to let it dangle between them or put it back in his ear.

"Don't you want this?" Light presses, holding out the earbud. It feels impolite to let go. Lawliet, pouting, only paws at his lower lip with his finger, peeling away the dry skin there in protest. He doesn't give Light so much as a sidelong glance. What a fucking baby.

Light sighs, frustrated, and puts the earbud back in his ear. His fingers fidget with it until he's found a comfortable spot.

"If you stop wiggling your toes I'll watch it," he resigns, not bothering to mask his annoyance.

He's annoyed because Lawliet doesn't have any semblance of personal space. His thigh is flush against Light's side, warm, and still wearing those goddamn gray sweatpants. His shoeless foot digs into the leather seat, and Light can feel the tendons flexing under him.

"Light-kun has come to his senses," Lawliet says, expressionless. "My favourite part is coming up."

Minutes pass. Out of the corner of his eye, Light watches Lawliet watch Casablanca. He has no clue if the favourite part in question has already passed or is yet to come. Normally, people sharing their favourite things with you, well, share. But Lawliet does not. Statuesque, his eyes sit wide; large unblinking pools of black, highlighted by little white squares. He looks like he could very well be watching paint dry.

On the little flatscreen, rumbling with each bump in the road, a man in black and white watches a woman walk into a bar. He says something about gin and joints and, ehh, probably tries to get in her pants or something. It's a pretty dry watch.

Truthfully, most movies bore him, much in the way most people do. It's all formulaic, and if it isn't, it's usually lunacy. Same goes for on the rink. Everyone is always showing their hand.

"Is everything alright? Light-kun is staring at me."

"Yep. Fine." Light says, snapping his attention on the screen.

Everyone is always showing their hand. Everyone, it seems, except for Lawliet.

Dad flips burgers on the neighbour's barbecue. When Light asks why, he is told they are celebrating.

The neighbour is old, older than Dad, with a white moustache, floral button up shirt—that isn't buttoned up—and a diamond earring. Light sits quietly in a lawn chair, reading in the summer sun.

The earring man looms over, blocking all the light. God dammit. He was just getting to the good part.

"Heyyyyy sport! How'd your exams go?"

"Fine."

"Did you get on the honour roll?"

"Yes sir."

"Fantastic!" he cheers, with a wood chipper laugh. "Got yourself a girlfriend? Or are ya still beatin' the girls away with a stick? Your Dad says you're quite the ladies' man at school."

Light just rambles off something about studies and practice, saying he doesn't have time for all that.

Several questions later, the neighbor finally finishes his interrogation by asking Light if he's 'jazzed' about being scouted for the junior league. Light's ninety nine percent sure he's never been jazzed a day in his life, but says yes anyway. Dad looks happy and he doesn't want to ruin it.

On the other side of the house, a road puck smacks against a garage door, and a handful of kids break out into a fit of laughter. He shoves his nose back in his book, avoiding eye-contact with his father.

"Hey, Light."

But it is too late.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Why don't you go play road hockey with the other boys?"

Light groans, quietly. "…They don't like me."

"What're you talkin' about? They can't get enough of you," the earring man chortles, with the grace of a bulldozer. He pats Light's shoulder so forcefully that the legs of his lawn chair squeak against the cement.

"They're, like, eight," Light says, "they're kids."

"Mikami's nephew is thirteen I'm pretty sure. That's only a year younger than you," the earring man says, walking back over to his father. Light wonders if he was dropped on his head as a child, since he can't button a shirt or do simple math.

"I'm fifteen."

"Going on twenty-five," Dad jokes. "We're gonna have to go over shaving soon."

"Dad."

"Just go say hi. Shoot a couple pucks with them. Teru's a nice kid, and he's only up for the weekend."

"Do I have to?"

"His aunt said he has trouble fitting in," Dad responds, which is code for yes, unless you want to be grounded the whole first week of summer break, you have to.

Now that there are men in suits knocking at his door, it's like Dad's made it his entire job to force him to play as much hockey as possible, and ruin summer break in the process.

"Okay," Light says, gripping his book far too tight, accidentally ripping the corner of the dust cover. As he leaves the neighbour's backyard, he takes one quick glance back. The earring man passes Dad another beer, which is infuriating because Dad doesn't even drink beer and he's already had one to be polite. They pick up on whatever conversation they were having before, and laugh with hands on their bellies. Dad has so many teeth in his mouth; they look like they could go on forever.

In the front driveway, four of the neighbourhood kids are taking turns shooting at a tall, gangly boy in glasses that Light has never seen before. He has braces, acne and is shaking like a leaf, in an old, worn out set of goalie pads. It's a pathetic display.

"You must be Teru," Light says.

"…You know my name?"

"You're new, right?"

Teru nods, sheepishly and the other kids, seeing Light, immediately crowd him. One tugs on his tshirt, begging him to play with them. Another asks about junior league. They follow like moths when he walks over to Teru.

"So. Uh. Do you like hockey?" Light asks.

"Not really. Are you mad?"

"Why would I be mad?"

"Cause, um, you're amazing," Teru praises, sagging in his hockey gear. Everything about him has this fear-stricken quality to it. Part of Light is repulsed by it, another part, not as much.

"Well…What do you like?" Light asks.

Teru shrugs. "I don't know. What do you like?"

"Um." Light thinks, nudging one of the smaller kids away from him, just to give himself more space. The answer should be hockey—err, the answer is hockey. It's always been hockey.

"…My sister likes figure skating," he hears himself say. "We have a bunch of tapes in the basement."

"That's cool," Teru replies, eyes brightening.

"I have a bunch of Hideki Ryuga's routines saved."

"Oh yeah. He's totally cool."

"You like him too?" Light asks.

"Oh, um." Teru fidgets with the hem of his shirt, a pimply mouse accidentally caught in a gluetrap. "I've never actually watched figure skating before. B-but it sounds really cool."

"Figure skating's gay," one of the kids says, whipping an orange puck at Teru's pads. He cowers behind his elbows.

"What's gay?" another asks.

"Gay's when you're bad at video games."

"No. Gay's when you're bad at sports."

"Teru's gay."

"You're gay."

"Hey," Light bites, and it's loud enough that all the neighborhood kids recoil back in fear, close to stumbling into the road. "I have an idea. Why don't you guys give Teru a break and play me?"

"Really?"

"No way!"

"Yeah," Light says, only really going to bat for this guy because his Dad has asked him to. "You guys can even try to take me four on one. First one of you to get a puck past me can have my old game stick as a trophy. If you can keep up."

The kids lose their shit, and the reaction is so over the top that Light finds himself laughing, not quite with a hand on his belly.

Out of all the kids, it's Teru who looks the happiest, which is strange because he's been assigned the most boring task of the bunch. Book Watcher. His job is to sit in the grass and make sure nobody touches Light's book, and he does. For two straight hours, Teru Mikami cradles it and watches him get pelted with four road safe, orange pucks. When Light smiles, he smiles. When Light swears, he swears. When dinner's finally ready, it's Teru emerging from the earring man's backyard with two paper plates, carrying two hot dogs each, dressed exactly the same way.

"You like relish too?" Light asks him.

"What's relish?"

"Uh, it's the green stuff you're eating."

"Oh," Teru says, turning pink. "I mean, I know. I love relish."

They eat in silence, and from the corner of his eye, Light can see Teru's face twisting with disgust.

"You don't have to eat it, if you don't like it."

"I like it," Teru insists, smiling ear to ear. When they're all done, he offers to take Light's plate to the garbage, but it is Light who ends up doing it, just to get a bit of space.

But Teru follows. He follows from the garbage can to the front of his house, all the way to Light's basement to sit on his big, beige pull out couch and watch two and a half hours of Olympic figure skating on tape.

Light says that Hideki Ryuga is Sayu's favourite. What he doesn't say, is that Ryuga is his favourite, too.

They eat chips from a bowl and drink fruit packets, lounging on the squeaky pull-out. Mom keeps it permanently pulled out for summer when fights with Dad get really bad, but they haven't had to use it since she's on a girls trip.

Teru reaches for a chip, and he seems to like them much better than the hot dogs. His hands are thin and pale, with warped, flaky nailbeds. They seem like they'd be cold to touch.

"I wish we could hangout forever," Teru finds himself saying absently, then immediately back peddles with embarrassment. Light feels his own face flush, and nervously buries it in a throw pillow to hide his laugh. He's never liked the way it sounds.

"I mean. Um. I'm sorry."

"Are you okay?" Light asks.

"Can we be friends? I don't have to be yours, I mean. You probably have a million friends. I just. I don't really have any." Teru admits, basically copying Light and groaning into his own pillow. "Nothing's coming out right."

Light pops his head up, just enough to open one of his eyes, and he finds Teru doing the same. For a second, they're both just…lying there, waiting for the other to do something. In the background, Ryuga's skates cut into the ice, set to a soft piano ballad.

The pull out couch is an awkward choice for a first-time hangout. It's old and rickety, and dips in the middle. Light and Teru keep inching closer to the centre. More like magnets than like friends. It isn't like magnets have a choice in the matter.

"We can be friends," Light whispers. Fear rakes over his skin, and there's a little pit in his tummy that keeps trying to steal his voice.

"We can?" Teru asks, eyes like saucers behind his glasses. "I really don't have to be your friend, you know. Even though you're mine."

"You're so weird," Light snickers.

"I can try not to be."

"No," Light says. "It's okay that you're weird. I like it."

Teru's face turns so red that Light has to look away. Fuzzy, Hideki Ryuga is about to launch into his final axel-jump of the routine, but then the cassette in the VCR runs out of tape. It makes a clunky, mechanical sound before the TV turns off, shrouding them both in complete darkness.

"I can't see a thing," Light whispers.

"Me neither. I bet God can't even see us."

"God's not real. But yeah, he probably can't."

There's no way God can see. His basement is the darkest place in the universe. It used to scare the shit out of him as a kid. On nights when the house was especially quiet, he and Sayu would fall asleep watching movies and he would wake up to discover she went to bed without him. Opening his eyes to nothing but pitch black darkness, his first thought would always be that he died.

The pull-out bed squeaks, dipping at Light's waist, where most of the weight seems to have localized. Teru calls his name, and it sounds oceans away. Lost somewhere in the middle of the mattress.

"What are you doing?" Light asks.

Teru doesn't respond, and Light suddenly feels like he has a road puck lodged in his throat. He gulps, and the sound goes on forever. It is too cold and too hot all at the same time. He shifts to lie on his back so he can get more air.

"Giving you a gift, for being so nice to me," Teru whispers out at sea, and then Light feels the tide pulling him out to join him. He feels a pressure on either side of his body, and then hears the unmistakable clang of his belt loosening.

Heat and fear pool at his gut, glueing him to the bed. His limbs feel like they're coursing with too much electricity. Fuzzy, like the basement tv.

Teru's breath tickles the sparse hairs on Light's stomach. He squirms, activating the bedsprings. Fingers wrestle with the button of his jeans, cool against the waistband of his boxers.

"Um. T-Teru."

BANG.

The ceiling rattles, loud and thunderous. They scramble like mice as they reach for the staircase, knocking the chip bowl onto the floor in the process. Dad calls out, but Light doesn't answer. His heart is rattling. Teru's socked feet are crunching chips into the carpet.

Just as Dad flicks on the light switch, he sees Teru darting past his father and running out the kitchen door. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't say goodnight. Light doesn't see him for the rest of his visit.

It's later, at his first-ever junior game, that Light finds out Teru is actually a year older than him. Somehow, he'd found out Light was playing for junior A. He sits on the bleachers, waving a banner with a poorly drawn picture of two stick figures eating hot dogs on it.

Timidly, Light waves, and the rest of the guys on the ice start giving him shit for it. One of them says he goes to the same school as Teru, and that he's a total psycho hockey fanatic. Like, stalker level obsessed with Light and his family. His locker is full of Ottawa Reapers merchandise, going so far as to have several pictures of his Dad taped up in his locker door. Someone apparently joked about the Reapers sucking ass one time and he got a three day suspension for stabbing them with a pencil.

Light stopped waving, after that.

Credits roll as the bus pulls into the parking lot of the Ottawa Reapers home arena, and Light finds himself teething on the corner of his bottom lip as he looks out the window. Some fifty feet ahead, where the bus is set to park, there are barricades blocking a small but uproarious crowd. Made up of some faces he recognizes, and some he wishes he didn't.

"Is Light-kun excited to be back in his hometown?" Lawliet asks, pocketing his headphones.

Light can't answer him. His mouth has run dry, seeing the face of one Teru Mikami in the crowd. He stands tall above the rest, still gangly as ever, decked out from head to toe in red and black. He's waving a vintage foam finger with Soichiro's face on it from the late nineties. The number 89 is painted on both of his cheeks. It sends Light's gut up into his throat.

"Sorry?"

"Something is the matter."

"N-no—"

Lawliet pouts. "Light-kun is lying again."

"I love being back home." Light says defensively, ducking in his seat.

"…I'm sure Light-kun is very excited, if he says he is." It's so fucking smug. So obviously baiting that Light's whole body tightens.

"You don't believe me?" Light spits.

"I don't believe anything Light-kun says to me." His tone is as soft as the smirk creeping up his face.

"Is that Teru?" Soichiro interrupts, basically announcing his observation to the entire bus. "Well, I'll be damned. We should go say hi, Light."

"—We're on a pretty tight schedule, Coach. The guys need to warm up, and there isn't a gym for miles," he says. Thank Fucking God.

Some of the guys jump out of their seats to look out the windows. The bus rattles like a basement. Briefly, Light imagines crashing through it.

Lawliet joins the pack, climbing over Light and pressing his nose to the glass. The side of his body is flush with Light's chest, pinning him to the seat.

"Jeez!" Light exclaims. "Could you give me a little room, please?"

"I want to see what all the fuss is about. Which one is Teru?"

"There's no fuss," Light protests, and Lawliet hums in disappointment. They've caught Matsuda's attention, who shoots them a quizzical glance. When Lawliet finally gives up and sits back down in his seat, Light pulls down the armrest.

"I wouldn't suppose that Light-kun would want to wear the hooded sweatshirt I brought with me, or the pair of sunglasses I happen to have in my personal bag, if I were to offer?"

Light stares at him, waiting for a shit eating grin to split his face in two. None comes.

"Do you really have those things?"

Lawliet answers by hauling a Scouts branded personal bag out from under his seat, unzipping the top to reveal a black oversized hoodie buried under a bunch of candy wrappers. It doesn't look like it's been washed in some time.

Soichiro and Aizawa are the first to get off the bus, and a handful of players follow. Matsuda and Mogi are still grabbing their things from under their seats. He only has a few more seconds to make a decision.

Light eyes the sweater. He needs to leave with the pack, so as not to be seen. But there's gotta be an option that doesn't require wearing Lawliet's clothes.

"…Can I really wear this?"

"Are we not friends?" Lawliet asks, sharpening his gaze.

Without any other option in sight, Light rips the sweater out of the bag and throws it over his head, just as he hears Teru Mikami shouting his father's name with glee.

"You said you had sunglasses too?"

"Yes," Lawliet says, and Light feels a pair of flimsy plastic sunglasses slide in his hand before his head has made it through the hood of the sweater. Hurriedly, he puts them on his face and pulls the hood over his head.

"Perhaps Light-kun would look even less distinguishable if he were to carry my personal bag."

"Are you serious?"

One minute later, Light finds himself creeping behind Lawliet, with a disturbingly heavy Scouts bag slung over his shoulder. Keeping his head down, he briskly makes for the player doors, and manages to evade direct contact with the fans, journalists, and paparazzi circling. Fortunately, Lawliet simultaneously attracts and repels onlookers. The public knows he isn't interested in talking to them, but they still want to catch a glimpse.

It isn't until he is seated on the bench in the Reapers' guest dressing room that Light feels like he can stop holding his breath.

"Okay boys," Aizawa says with a brusque clap. "Puck drop is at two. Time to warm up. Sorry you have to do it here."

Everyone starts undressing, prepping for warmup. Light shucks off his pants, already dressed in his running shorts underneath.

"Would Light-kun like to continue wearing my sweater?"

"Oh, sorry. I'll—"

"He should wear it. It will get his blood pumping," Lawliet pushes.

"We're playing Ottawa, Lawly. Not Edmonton. No one needs to kill themselves," Mogi laughs. "You see these guys play?"

"No one listen to Mogi," Aizawa argues. "We could really use these points. I want you hustling out there. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Coach," the room responds.

"Good. Speaking of, we're trying something different today. Light, Lawliet. We're putting you both on the starting line."

"Who'll play centre?" Light asks.

"Ide will be. You'll be right and left winger."

"Ide?"

Hideki Ide (#72) is what's known as a utility player. He's a pretty good forward, and a pretty good defenseman. So he spends most of his time on the ice filling out whoever needs the additional help. He's a pretty quiet guy on and off the ice, and doesn't take well to Light's direction, which makes him all the more confused as to why Aizawa and Soichiro would want him playing centre.

"Why is Ide leading?" Matsuda says, making himself useful for once.

"Um," Aizawa stumbles, looking uncomfortable. "I think it's better if—"

Soichiro barrels into the dressing room, with one hand holding a cellphone to his ear, and the other pointing aggressively at Aizawa. "Yes, yes," he mutters into the line. "It will be decided tonight. That I can promise you."

The room rumbles with harsh whispers as Soichiro exits through another door.

"So I'm benched?" Mogi barks. "This is fucked."

"Hey," Aizawa chirps back. "This is our call. Not yours. And you're not benched. You're just not going to be on the ice for puck drop."

"What was Coach talking about?" Matsuda asks. "What's being decided?"

"I think I know," Ide says, softly. "And it starts with the letter C."

Light and Lawliet stare dubiously at each other. "You don't think…" Light says.

"Light-kun, you don't suppose Coach Yagami is choosing—"

"It's just a normal game, guys," Aizawa assures, jumpy with it. "Do what you always do. Work together, score goals, win."

"And don't fuck up," Mogi says, "or you'll lose your shot at Captain."

Aizawa groans, pinching his nose. The chatter turns heated as the guys pepper him with an onslaught of questions. Who they're considering. Who they're considering considering. Who specifically is making the final decision.

"Does Light-kun think he's going to be selected?" Lawliet asks, surveying the chaos from the corner of the room. It's only in this moment that Light realizes how far away all the other guys are from him.

"Um," Light thinks. "It's a big responsibility."

"That it is."

"Do you want it?"

"Not particularly."

Light wants it. Of course he wants it. But he doesn't want to say he wants it. So he hides his face from Lawliet, abruptly putting an end to their conversation by rolling up the sleeves of the oversized hoodie and dropping into a set of crunches. He does as many as he can before his abs start to lock up.

When it comes to picking a team captain, some teams pick their best player. Others pick their best leader, playing skills be damned. Light is both, everyone knows that.

There is no reason to freak out.

"Quit freaking out."

"You're the one freaking out," Light snaps, tapping Lawliet's stick furiously.

"Back up. I've got this, Light-kun!"

Ten minutes in, the Ottawa Reapers have scored exactly one goal; and they're set to score again, if Lawliet doesn't come to his fucking senses. They are the lowest ranked team in the entire league.

Seven players crowd Matsuda's net, and Lawliet isn't doing jack shit to get the puck out of their end zone. It bounces between three sets of skates, not unlike a metal ball in a pinball machine. All in all, it's a complete clusterfuck. Lawliet can't keep hold of the puck for more than a second without someone stealing it from him.

"Just let me, ngh, get it!" Light yells at Lawliet. "I'm open!"

"No! Back up!" Lawliet bellows, kicking one of his legs out to try to give himself more room. All it does it make space for more of the Reapers to get their sticks in. Frustrated, Light huffs, driving his own stick into the mess. It clacks against the others, and Matsuda wails like a newborn. With every shot that whacks against his pads, he actually whimpers.

"Light-kun, ngh, please let me—"

"No, you, mmnf!" Light pushes back, and then one of the Reapers' wingers somehow manages to get the blade of his stick around the puck long enough to try to fish it out. As he yanks, Lawliet shoves the blade of his own stick up the winger's jersey, and pulls him back into the fray.

The whistle blows, the crowd booes, and the winger loses it. At least they didn't score.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he shouts, shoving Lawliet into the boards. In response, Lawliet drops his stick and shoves back. Then, they're shucking their gloves and Light races to the middle to intervene. Only a captain would have the maturity to set aside petty differences in the name of sportsmanship.

"Get the fuck outta the way," the winger seethes, quite clearly, which is impressive for someone with so few teeth.

"Light-kun, move."

"No—"

WHAM.

Pain. Blistering pain that ricochets up his face. Light's smacked square in the jaw, and hits the ice floor with a heavy thud before he can even get a word in. Snarling, Lawliet tackles the winger, going down with him. And then all three of them are lost in a sea of limbs.

"NUMBER EIGHTY TWO, TWO MINUTES FOR HOOKING!" the referee declares over the loudspeaker. "AND NUMBER EIGHTY NINE, FIVE FOR FIGHTING!"

"That's bullshit!" Mogi barks from the bench. "Not gonna bench your own guys? Fucking bullshit! Light didn't do shit!"

"Out of line!" Soichiro bellows. "I wanna talk, ref!"

Light gets to his feet, rubbing the heartbeat in his jaw. The crowd booes, but there isn't much oomf to it. If anything, Mogi's furious pounding on the boards is ten times scarier. Lawliet skulks off to the penalty box, and Light chases after him.

"What the fuck!" he yells. "You just gave them the advantage. We're down two bodies now because of you!"

"Yes, Light-kun. Thank you for that explanation, but I do have a base understanding of how power plays work."

"Do you?" Light seethes, "because we're not supposed to be fucking giving them away!"

Lawliet mock-smiles before the penalty box door closes, sealing them in. On the jumbotron, a two minute timer counts down.

Two minutes. Light has to endure only two minutes. After that, Lawliet gets back out on the ice, and Light has three whole minutes to himself. He can cool down and come up with a plan. Something that showcases his leadership skills, but also utilizes his stick work and intuitiveness.

"If Light-kun would just let me take care of it—"

"I was open," Light says, taking off his helmet. The open air hits his neck. It's freezing cold.

"That isn't true," Lawliet tuts. "They were all over you. You should have given me some space."

"So you could've kept hogging the puck?"

"So I could have scored. Since Light-kun wasn't going to."

Light bites the inside of his cheek, so hard he tastes blood. "You don't know that."

"I do, actually," Lawliet says, taking off his helmet and turning to face him. His cheeks are sallow, blotchy from the freezing air and pink from exertion. "Light-kun had three men on him, waiting for me to give him the puck so that one of them could steal it from between his legs. He did not notice, since he only has eyes for me."

Light flinches, furious. "You're such an asshole."

Lawliet pauses to wipe his forehead down with a rag. "Yes. And Light-kun is still just a rookie."

There's something about hearing the word that turns his brain to static. That activates his fingers into developing a mind of their own. They reach out, bunching up Lawliet's jersey and shoving him into the glass, rousing the fans behind. The red of it bounces off Lawliet's face, making him look like an overripe tomato on the verge of bursting.

"Don't fucking call me that."

"But it is true, is it not?" Lawliet asks with a patronizing tone. "However brilliant, he is so very inexperienced."

"You're just saying all this because you want captain."

"And why would I want that?"

"Y-You're," Light stalls. Lawliet's in his eighth year playing, though Light's unsure how many of those he's been captain. "You're trying to psyche me out so I play poorly. You want the title all for yourself."

"I am apathetic to the idea, but if Coach Yagami were to give it to me, I wouldn't say no."

Panic floods his bloodstream. His grip tightens on Lawliet's jersey. "You do want it. You fucking liar."

"Perhaps all I want is to put Light-kun in his place, and if being his superior makes that easier, well," Lawliet says, letting his stupid fucking mouthguard flop out of his mouth. It's sopping with spit.

"Put your mouthguard back in."

Lawliet's gaze darkens. He lowers his head. "Make me—"

"Don't—"

"R—"

Light does, and it results in a black eye, bloody nose, and an epic 3-0 loss for the New Jersey Killers.

"Welcome back to another thrilling episode of Coach's Corner. I'm Rem Obata—"

"And I'm f*****' flabbergasted. What the f*** was that?"

"What that was," Rem says, tight faced, "was possibly one of the strangest hockey games I've ever witnessed. The New Jersey Killers may have just made history."

"Historic at least for rival teammates Light Yagami and L. Lawliet, who are sitting out on a one game suspension for tomorrow's game against Toronto, after fighting each other," Ryuk says. "For those of you that missed it, here's a replay."

The feed cuts from the newsdesk to the Killers penalty box, where Light and Lawliet are fist fighting. At one point, Lawliet rips off his jersey and then gets Light's own jersey over his head. Blood smears against the glass. They both fall to the floor, disappearing from view. The fans behind go nuts, taking photos on their digital cameras.

"I don't know about you, Rem," Ryuk says, "but I do not wanna be sitting in Coach Yagami's locker room right now."

"I couldn't agree more," Rem says, "which, frankly, kind of disturbs me."

"Did you miss out on tonight's game? Well you can catch the New Jersey Killers tomorrow night at 7PM EST, facing off against the Toronto Bells. We'll be there in person for a very special episode of Coach's Corner."

Chapter Text

Silence. Twenty two men—who just want to go to the hotel, who are exhausted from play and pissed-off from the loss—sit in pin dropping silence.

"So no one is going to answer me?"

Light's breathing picks up, shallow as it is. He sits with his hands in his lap. Back straight. Head down. The peaks of his knuckles are swollen, red with Lawliet's blood. Red with his own. Even as Soichiro addresses him by name, he doesn't dare look away from them.

"I have no words for what I just witnessed. In all my years, I have never seen such disrespect for the game. For your coaches. For each other."

Soichiro doesn't yell. Not when he's this mad. Yelling is for practice drills. For poor calls from the opposition. Something to corral, something to spook. It's when Soichiro's voice rolls like gravel that the weight of how mad he really is sets in.

Twenty two men, and not one pipes up.

"Well?"

Coach Aizawa tsks, like the well-trained good cop he is. "I'm disapponted too," he utters, hands on his hips. "That was bush-league out there. I know how good it feels to score, but you're supposed to be working together. All of you are. We're a laughing stock."

Of course they are. Light Yagami has his finger on the pulse, at all times. He knows exactly what the headlines will say, before they've even been written. He's already mentally prepared himself for the gruelling work ahead. He will outwit the papers. He will outmaneuver his opponents. He will repair the single crack in Soichiro's perfect image of him. Spackle over the loss, apologize for the scuffle, Light will motivate the team into turning out a win (without their two best players) tomorrow.

"Light?" His father asks, voice well worn from straining to understand. Straining to comprehend.

Light doesn't respond.

He comes to find he can't. Caged, afraid, his tongue hides behind his teeth and he continues to stare at his bloodied hands. Immobile in the presence of Soichiro Yagami's patent leather oxfords.

From under his bangs, Light glances to where Lawliet leans against the wall. Slack jawed. Sweat sheened. He has two jumbo tissues shoved up his nose, soaked to their very tips with red. Wearing not a look of pain, or even remorse, but something akin to boredom.

"Answer me," Soichiro calls, fury in his hands as he slams an empty coffee cup into the trash. "What were you two thinking?"

"I."

I wasn't, is the obvious answer.

Light's faculties were fine, right up until that winger socked him in the jaw. Until his hands were tangled in his teammate's jersey. Until his back was pressed against the cement floor, and Lawliet was straddling him. Pinning his arms over his head. Making him wince and laughing at the sound.

He was thinking, until he wasn't. That's it. He doesn't have a better excuse—not that it matters, really. No excuse has proven enough in the eyes of Soichiro Yagami.

"Hey, Coach, can I say something?" Mogi jumps in, eager to sign his own death warrant, apparently. Whatever. His funeral.

"Kanzo Mogi." Soichiro roars his name, and the shock of it makes everyone jump. "No you may not."

Sticks, water bottles, it all tumbles to the floor. It is the loudest he's been in fifteen minutes, and it's spooked everyone into dropping everything.

"You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not destroy hotel property. You do not spit in the face of an official! I can't believe I have to say this!"

"Coach…I'm sorry, but…that ref had it out for us. That was fucked," Mogi interrupts. At least doing a damn good job of sounding remorseful for it. "All due respect. I just feel like we're alone out there…we don't have a, y'know…"

"…A captain," Ide malignes, tapping the toes of his skates together.

It's the elephant in the room. The big, looming question on everyone's minds. Had it been answered at the top of the season, tensions might not have reached such a point. Someone would have had the authority to go toe to toe with the referees, to review plays alongside them, since players technically aren't allowed to fraternize with officials (and especially not allowed to spit on them).

"We need a leader, Coach," Mogi emphasizes, remorsefully. "We need someone out there."

Matsuda leans over, gently nudging Light's shoulder. When he gazes up, he realizes there are twenty one sets of eyes on him. His father's eyes on him.

"I-I feel like I need to say something," Light stumbles, since Lawliet isn't racing to dole out any condolences. Presumably, that's what they're waiting for. "I'm really sorry, guys. Gosh. I, I let my emotions get the best of me out there. The truth is," he improvises, "I guess after everything with Ukita…I was just worried for Matty. We were all crammed like sardines in the net, and I didn't listen to Lawliet when he told me to back up. It was all my fault. I'm sorry, I let you guys down."

The room softens, exchanging looks of sympathy. Everyone on the team gives some form of absolution, save for Lawliet. His eyes only sharpen, interrogatively. Sharper still, the more he talks.

"…The Reapers weren't letting up, and I guess I let them get to me. I knew playing in my hometown wasn't gonna be easy, but I never expected to lose control like that, especially on my own teammate. I bet you're all thinking I'm a real piece of work."

"Not at all, we get it. It's tough out there," Matsuda soothes, pulling Light into a side hug. "It's like Mogi said. This is a brotherhood, right? A-And sometimes brothers fight, uh, with each other."

"I know," Light exhales, chuckling softly. "Actually, I guess I don't. I only have a sister."

The room eats it up, and even Soichiro's brow softens. Moved by his humility, his grief, his leadership. It doesn't matter that he isn't sorry for what he did to Lawliet's face, just that he looks it. A small price to pay in the grand scheme of things; he has sealed the crack in his father's doubt. He has won.

It looks that way, anyway. Until Lawliet, decomposing in the corner, scoffs. The sound shoots up his spine.

"Excuse me," Soichiro skewers, "anything you'd like to say, Mr. Lawliet?"

Lawliet hums. "No, not really."

"Are you sure? Because it seems to me like there's something on your mind."

"…Nothing that concerns you, Coach."

Soichiro's nostrils flare, tense with emasculation. The vein in his forehead starts pulsing. "You are on very thin ice, young man."

"Umm, Coach?" Aizawa interrupts, peeking an eye out the dressing room door. People have started banging on it. "Press is here."

"Dammit," Soichiro growls, breaking his death-stare with Lawliet to join him. Dozens of flashing lights greet them. Four or five wayward hands, clutching microphones, shove their way in. It is a wonder no one loses one as Soichiro slams the door closed.

"Apologize," Light whispers, while his father is distracted. There is no trace of demand in his voice. No reason for Lawliet to look so offended just now.

"Why would I do something like that?"

"Coach will cut your ice time."

"Yes, he might."

"Just say you're sorry," he snips.

"Would Light-kun like that?" Lawliet mutters, too low for anyone else to hear. "If I dropped to the floor, and crawled on hand and knee with my tail between my legs, and told his father I was sorry for hurting his perfect son's perfect face, would he like that? Would that make him feel better about having done something so egregious himself…in front of all these people no less?"

Light swallows, stifling the red hot rage climbing up his throat. "…I can see you're still upset," he says with a tight smile. "I meant what I said. I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry that I did."

Lawliet rolls his eyes, fishing around in his duffel bag. "Let me see if I have a handkerchief," he muses, "since Light-kun is so very full of bullshit. It's starting to spill out his mouth and drip on the floor."

Light's hands flex into fists, but Aizawa cuts in, commanding the room with two curt claps before he can use them. "Gentlemen," he coughs, "as you know, the GM's been breathing down our necks. Ide brings up a good point. Regarding captain—"

"We had decided upon one, as well as an alternate," Soichiro adds.

"You have?" Matsuda gasps.

"But. After tonight, we are unfortuantely back to deliberating."

Light deflates. Either he'd been picked for captain, and his speech did nothing, or worse. His father had chosen Lawliet over him from the very beginning. And that simply is not possible.

As Soichiro waxes on, he looks at Light, and only Light. Flopping back and forth between disappointment and hope for the future like a dying fish on a deck.

"I don't know if any of you have what it takes, from what I've seen on this leg of the trip. You have desecrated the Killers name tonight."

"Coach."

"Do you want a suspension too?" Soichiro seethes. "I swear Mogi, I'm not afraid to pull you off in Toronto."

"…No sir."

"Frankly," Soichiro sighs, "the way all of you performed this evening, it has me wondering if I am even fit to coach you."

Shock. Despondence. Soichiro disappears into the sea of flashing lights.

"A decision will be reached," Aizawa says, "and as soon as we know, you'll know. In the meantime, Coach and I have scheduled a dinner for you in the hotel restaurant. After that, it's back to your rooms and lights out. I will be checking. Toronto's a five hour drive, and that's if we don't hit traffic. Sound good?"

"Yes, Coach," the room chants.

"Alright. Let's get the hell out of here."

Bitching and moaning about one thing or another, the guys load up their gear and make for the hotel. Most don't even bother showering. Lawliet packs up in surprising silence. Light still has his sweater.

Light bends down to take off his skates. Straightening his fingers, a flash of pain in his right hand knocks him back against the wall. He closes his eyes, pretending to relax, and waits for the room to clear out before considering examining it.

It's only when he's absolutely certain that he's alone that he tries bending down again. There's a sharpness in his knuckles, from where he'd scraped them against the floor of the penalty box—or maybe against Lawliet's jaw, it's all blurring together. It hurts to bend it. It hurts not to. He hadn't noticed when Soichiro was in the room.

Light tugs on the strings. The pain, lightning hot, shoots up to his elbow when he applies even a feather's pressure. It's bad, but nothing he can't handle. So he curses, and pushes on. And on, until his face burns hot and his bottom lip trembles.

Just when he feels wetness rushing his waterline, his skates finally hit the floor with two, dull thuds.

"Heya, Light?"

Light scrambles, not having heard the door open, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jersey. "Matty? You didn't have to wait for me," he sings—sunny as he can muster—without looking up. Not just yet.

The dressing room door closes softly. Footsteps idle forward. Light's knuckles pulse.

"…Just wanted to see if you're alright," Matsuda says, dropping his goalie bag on the ground and taking an invitation to sit that no one offered. "Woah. Your hand doesn't look so good."

"I was just resting."

"Well that's not good. You hate rest," Matsuda jokes. His laugh is awkward and choppy. "So uh. I know you probably don't wanna talk about it…but…for what it's worth, I think Coach is gonna pick you for captain—"

"I don't know about that."

"I do. You're, you're amazing Light. You're like, on another level. I know we have Lawliet, and he's good. Real good. But…I've never seen anyone in their rookie year—"

"—Matty," Light interrupts. He doesn't have a plan for what to say next, but just knows he can't stomach another moment of this. He can't take any compliments. Not after the way his dad looked at him. After what he said.

"Thank you for checking on me. I just, I think I need to be alone for a minute."

"Oh. Um. Yeah. Okay. You sure?"

"Yeah. If that's okay. Sorry."

"Of course, I didn't mean to intrude," Matsuda sputters, picking his goalie bag off the floor and taking the hint after it was so kindly spelled out for him. "…Hey um, are you coming to dinner?"

"Of course," he says, recalibrating. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, it's just…Lawliet was asking."

"About me?"

"But since we're in Ottawa and all I figured you wouldn't be. You probably have a million friends you wanna see."

"No, no," Light assures, a spike of ire in his gut. "It's light's out after dinner anyway, right? We're curfewed."

"Good point," Matsuda says, hovering. Never knowing when to mind his damn business. "Are you guys gonna be okay at dinner?"

"Yeah, it's fine."

"I can sit between you, if it's weird."

"Matty. I'm okay."

"If you're sure." Matsuda palms the back of his next, shrugging. "Umm, just a head's up. Press is still out there. They're hound dogs tonight. We can walk together—"

"—You go ahead," Light says for the four thousandth time, busying himself with his duffel bag to save himself from more…this. He picks up Lawliet's hoodie and debates throwing it over his head, but ultimately decides to cram it into his bag. The thought of wearing it makes his skin itch.

Matsuda leaves, and finally, he's alone. Able to test his range of motion as he flexes his right hand. He winces, and it's as freeing as it is painful. No need to worry about the face he's making when there is no one around to see it.

He'll need x-rays, at the very least. But that is a problem that can wait for Newark. Throwing his bag over his shoulder—fully healed—he catches a view himself in the floor to ceiling mirror. He expects to see a boy with windswept hair, kind eyes and a winning smile. The Light Yagami he knows.

Those things are there, with some additions. His lip is swollen. He has the beginning of a bruise forming under his eye. It's sore to the touch. Five or six smaller ones pepper his throat. He can feel them when he swallows.

Maybe, after dinner, the feeling will fade.

When Light is ushered into the restaraunt's private party room, the first thing he notices is that Soichiro and Aizawa aren't there.

Tucked away at the very back of the restaraunt, the team sits at one, sprawling table. The energy is far lighter than it was at the arena. They all raise their glasses when he walks in, celebrating his arrival. Mogi pats an empty chair. To Light's surprise, he's seated across from Lawliet.

"Sorry I'm late," Light says, tucking in his chair. "I forgot how hard it is to get a cab here."

"All good," Mogi says, chewing on a breadstick. "We were just talkin' shit about you."

Light laughs when Mogi does, pouring himself a glass of water from a pitcher when Matsuda does. His left hand wobbles lifting it. His right, thoroughly disinfected and wrapped in gauze, hides in the pocket of his slacks.

"Did we order already?"

"Nope, not yet. Lawliet was hellbent on waiting for you."

"Oh," Light says, surprised.

"It is the least we could do, after such a rousing speech," Lawliet mutters, lining up his cutlery. "How very noble, to fall on the sword for us."

"It was nothing," Light jokes, uncomfortably.

There are rings in the tablecloth to suggest that Mogi is on his third drink. Lawliet, looking to be on his first, is drinking something dark and carbonated through a colourful straw. The end of it is bitten to shit. He chomps down on it, muttering something ineligible.

"Looking sharp, buddy. Hot date after this?" Mogi asks.

"Yes, Light-kun looks quite dressed up," Lawliet drawls, taking his time to examine Light's attire. "Any particular reason?"

It spins a web of anxiety in his chest. He'd struggled getting a cab, that much was true. But deciding on a shirt—something understated, but quality, with a collar high enough to hide Lawliet's fingerprints—was the real challenge. He settled on a cashmere turtleneck in charcoal, one tucked away in the corner of his suitcase. If he'd had known how dark it would be in the restaurant, he'd have just stuck to a half-zip.

"No, no hot date," Light laughs, "we're curfewed, remember?"

"Speaking of," Lawliet says, "could Light-kun show me where the washrooms are, while we still have our freedom?"

Light could.

Much in the way Lawliet could have kept his mouth shut in the penalty box. Or in the dressing room, for that matter. They could have avoided this curfew mess altogether; if he'd just passed the puck to Light before getting in that scramble.

They could be playing Toronto tomorrow. But they aren't. Because Lawliet is a selfish child, sent from hell to ruin everything he's built for himself.

"I'm sure a server will know." Light smirks, goading. He eyes the menu but opts not to reach for it. It's a massive, clunky leather binder, and hardly looks like something he can peruse one-handed.

"Ahem, Light-kun," Lawliet pushes. It sounds a hell of a lot like pleading, and God, the sound is sweet. "You have stayed at this hotel before, have you not?"

"Many times," Light muses. The drink menu, on the other hand, is far easier to navigate with only his left hand. He plucks it off the table and takes his time scanning his options. He doesn't plan on drinking at all, but Lawliet doesn't have to know that.

"Hmm, so much to choose from."

For someone so harried, Lawliet's face hardly moves. It's only in the frenzied flash of his eyes that Light can see his desperation. Lingering on the cocktail list, Light smiles, ear to fucking ear. He can't help it.

"Please, I need—"

"We heard you the first time," Mogi barks, reaching for the dinner menu, "so ask a server or figure it out, Christ."

Lawliet wilts.

It is wonderful.

Servers round their table, penning orders, bringing out drinks, and Lawliet doesn't ask where the washrooms are. Not once in twenty minutes. Not even when one of them admits to being a massive Scouts fan and sheepishly asks for his autograph. He declines, sending her back to the kitchen in tears after tapping him on the shoulder.

Only when their plates come out does Lawliet resort to more desperate bids for Light's attention, by kicking him in the shin. Light chokes through the flash of pain, coughing into his napkin. There will be hell to pay if there is a scuff in his slacks.

"Down the wrong pipe?" Mogi asks.

"Something like that."

"Would Light-kun like to try my crepes? They're delicious," Lawliet asks, holding out his fork.

"No, that's, they look, I'm okay," Light says, so very politely, instead of jumping over the table to strangle him to death. Lawliet's plate is a sticky, syrupy mess. He prods at the penne on his own plate—far from his first choice. Unfortunately, there are only so many dishes on the menu that one can eat with only a fork.

"Damn those crepes look good," Mogi says, moping over his quarter chicken and broccoli.

"Don't even think about it," Light utters. "A deal's a deal."

"Yeah yeah, I know. Rest of the season. Looks tasty is all."

A voice calls out, interrupting their fleeting moment of peace. Shrill. Sharp. Familiar.

"What's tasty?"

It's like being underwater, hearing her voice cut through the restaurant. Seeing her shadow blanket the table. Smelling her perfume, thick and wafting, as her arms cage him in from behind. In twenty years, she never once switched it up. Bile creeps up his throat.

"M-Mom?"

"And me, too!" Sayu shrieks, popping out from the depths of hell to join one Sachiko Yagami, in the flesh, uninvited.

"No way," Mogi gasps. "Are you Mrs. Yagami? It is an honour!"

"Call me Chiko, dear," she giggles, and her whole body rattles with the sound. A chime in the wind, she's made up of every piece of jewelry she owns. "Now, Light baby, I know you're having dinner but Dad said you weren't going to make it home for a visit, and I have all of this stuff I need you to go through at the house. Did he tell you—"

"M—"

"I've been thinking about turning the basement into a home gym, but then where would all the Christmas decorations go? Oh! Did Dad also tell you about the basement? Flooded! Can you believe it? Thank the heavens we only had to replace the carpet. Not that I'm complaining. Oh, you boys should've seen the carpets. Impossible to clean!"

"Mom," Light chokes out. "Coach wants us in bed right after dinner. I'm sorry—"

"God, listen to me!" his mother shrieks with faux-embarrassment, taking the news disturbingly, uncharacteristically well. "I'm sorry boys, you probably don't want an old maid like me crashing your party. I'll go."

"Don't listen to Light," Mogi says with a shit eating grin. Potential payback for the chicken. "We'll make room."

"Mogi," Light warns.

"C'mon Light. I wanna hear more about your Mom's carpet."

Lawliet snickers around his fork. Light contemplates shoving it down his throat.

In the absence of his father, Sachiko Yagami doesn't steal the spotlight so much as hold it hostage at the dinner table. Cackling so loud that the servers have to ask her to mind her volume. She doesn't ask if she's imposing, but just performs the act of asking; making herself clumsy to suss out the whitest knight of the bunch. She finds it in Mogi, who nearly puts himself in Light's lap to make space for her.

The guys eat up the entire shtick, made easy when she buys them a round of pitchers. They offer to buy her drinks in return, or give her at least a sip of their own. She isn't the most beautiful woman, but that's never really mattered. Not as far as Light can remember. As weird as it is to acknowledge, Mom has always had a way with men. Except Dad, which in hindsight is maybe why she married him. He was, and remains, her only challenge.

"I've seen you on tv," Sayu says, eager to deflect from the chaos happening at the other end of the table. She watches Lawliet drag his finger across the plate, picking up chocolate spread and sticking it in his mouth. "…You're the new guy, right?"

"Well, that depends on your definition of new," Lawliet sighs, "but yes, I suppose."

"Cool," Sayu says. "So, uh. What's with that moustache thing?"

"Mmn?" Lawliet takes a napkin to his face, dabbing at the corner of his mouth. Chocolate remains.

"We watched you play on Thanksgiving. You drew a moustache on your face."

"Montreal, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah, seems like, I dunno." She shrugs. "Why do you do it?"

"Because" Lawliet exhales, monotone. "The NHL is made up of some of the most witless, brutish men I've ever had the displeasure of working with. They are monsters."

"Right," Sayu says, hesitantly.

"Do you know how to slay a monster, Sayu, was it?"

"Yeah, um. No, I don't."

Light bristles. Hearing Sayu's name come out of Lawliet's mouth does something strange to his body. His fork, full of penne, screeches against the dinner plate.

"The only way to slay a monster is to find it's weakness, and attack that weakness without mercy."

"Uh huh," she utters, looking visibly—but not surprisingly—uncomfortable in Lawliet's presence. From what Light has gathered, that's his baseline.

"That's…cool."

"Unfortunately," Lawliet despairs, "there is one monster I have yet to slay, and I'd very much like to. He is proving to be quite difficult."

"Sorry to hear that," Sayu says, stealing Light's fork. She paws at his dinner, and he lets her. He's kind like that. A good older brother.

"So what's this guy's weakness?" she asks, taking mouthfuls of Light's pasta.

Everything to static. The clinking of cups, his mother's voice, the laughter of his teammates. His ears rumble with the sound of Lawliet's voice, and only his voice.

"That's what's funny," he meanders, flat and entirely unamused. He sets down his fork, pulls his knees to his chest, and looks directly at Light. "I believe it is me."

"You ran out fast."

"Yeah. Wasn't feeling great," Light says, staring at the ceiling. For the first hour of solitude, it was black in his hotel room. Now, in Mogi's presence, it flashes twenty different colours. He can't settle on a channel.

"Your mom's a riot. Weird that Coach wasn't at dinner with her."

"I guess."

"Have you talked to him," Mogi asks, turning on his side. "Like, since the game?"

"Should I have?"

Mogi circles through the channels like a tiger trapped in a cage, thinking. This might be the first time in history he's been in bed by ten.

"Seems like a shit thing to do is all."

Too tired to ask what he means, Light rolls over to face the wall. He's a specific kind of tired. Sachiko Yagami Tired. The kind of tired that makes talking feel as strenuous as running a marathon.

There's a knock at the door. Light closes his eyes pretends he doesn't hear it. Mogi takes care of it.

"Seriously?" Mogi blurts out, peeling it open. "You were for real about the babysitter thing?"

"I'm just making sure no one flies the coop," Aizawa jokes. "Is Light in there?"

"Here," Light huffs, as loud as he can muster.

"How was dinner?"

"Good. Light's mom showed up. Bought us all shots."

Light cringes, not having known that little tidbit. Must have been after he left. Curling his knees up to his chest, he tunes out the rest of their conversation for the sake of his sanity. Once Mogi and Aizawa say their goodnights, Mogi dramatically flops on the bed and lets out an exaggerated sigh.

"This sucks so much ass. Are you really sleeping?"

"Trying to."

Fifteen minutes pass. Mogi doesn't fall asleep. He doesn't let Light, either, with all his groaning. The tv is too loud, but Light doesn't want to say anything.

Another knock at the door, this one far more shallow than Aizawa's. Mogi leaps out of bed to answer it.

A few seconds pass. Another knock.

"Aren't you gonna open it?" Light asks. "Who is it?"

"It's…Lawly?" he whispers. "What should I do?"

There's a third soft rapping against the door, and a pained sigh to accompany it. Crawling out of bed and poking his head around the corner, he sees Mogi peering through the peephole.

"Uhh, see what he wants I guess?"

Following his direction, Mogi cracks it open, and Lawliet meanders through the door.

"Move," Lawliet snips.

"Well fuck you too," Mogi chirps back. "What do you want?"

"I won't be long," Lawliet says, rubbing his temple, pained as he plants himself in front of the television. He's swallowing like he hasn't had a drop of water in days. "I just wanted to let Light-kun know that he is a bad friend, and I wish to tell him I am going to die because of such. Enjoy your evening, and the rest of the season."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Light says, throwing off the covers and hopping out of bed.

With the grace of a newborn deer, Lawliet brushes past Mogi and makes for the door, only to trip on a sneaker, and collapse against the wall. He then vomits on the carpet.

"Jesus fuck!" Mogi shouts, rushing to his side. "You couldn't have warned a guy? The toilet is right there."

Of all things, chocolate hits Light's nostrils. Sickly sweet as Lawliet wretches again, this time over Mogi's bare feet.

Mogi shrieks, looking like he's going to be sick himself. Light as a feather, he grabs Lawliet and harshly drags him to the bathroom.

"Stop it," Lawliet fights, flailing against Mogi's hold. "Don't touch me. My head hurts. I don't like to be touched."

"Tough tits. You're puking in the toilet."

Light rounds the entryway to the bathroom. There's something small and black preventing the hotel door from closing all the way. It looks almost like a pencil case. He grabs it, unzips it, and finds a few diabetic supplies in one pocket, a medical alert bracelet in another, and, of all things, a British passport.

"Puke here and get out," Mogi says, throwing Lawliet like a bag of bones in front of the toilet bowl. He grabs a towel for his feet. "Call Light if you need help. He's good with puke."

"Me?!" Light says, joining them.

"Well you are. I'm ordering pay-per-view."

Light curses, hands tightening on the pouch. Mogi gives him a half-hearted salute and then seals them in the bathroom. The stench is acrid, and sharply fruity. Lawliet groans over the bowl, in a pair of black boxer briefs and a baggy white tee. At least this one looks clean.

"…Do you want a fruit snack?"

"A fruit snack? Does Light-kun hate me?"

"I'm trying to help."

"He's trying to kill me," Lawliet seethes, head resting on the rim of the bowl. "He isn't my friend at all."

"Well I don't know what you need," Light spits, voice more panicked than he'd like.

"Water," Lawliet begs, the picture of misery, and at least that is something to keep his mood elevated. "Water, now."

Light grabs one of the paper cups on the bathroom counter. Unsheathing it from its protective plastic, he fills it up with sink water.

"Faster."

"Be patient," Light scolds. "God, what are you, five?"

"Teetering on two hundred, actually," Lawliet corrects. "Any higher and I'll need medical attention. Water?"

"Good lord," Light scoffs, handing him the cup. "You smell like a distillery. Did you buy the whole bar?"

"Chiko may have," he manages to respond, chugging. Spilling water all over his shirt. "Pens. I need my pens."

"Get them yourself," Light spits. Hand on the doorknob.

"No, Light-kun. Don't go. I'm sorry." He points at the supply pouch with a shaky hand. "Please. I need my pens. I can do it myself. I just need him to give me my pouch."

Reluctantly, Light does toss him the supply pouch, and Lawliet pulls out a thick pen shaped device. He squints, turning a knob. It makes a harsh clicking sound. Ripping the cap off with his teeth, he lifts up his shirt and bites down on it to hold it up.

"Are you okay?"

"Evidently not," Lawliet mutters, hand trembling.

"Well, I…I said I could help."

"Light-kun didn't help me bolus before dinner. Even though he said he always would. Why would he want to help me now?"

"I didn't know it was a diabetes thing!" Light lies. "I don't know what a bolus is!"

"I can educate him," Lawliet says, stalling with the pen. "If he wishes to remain true to his word?"

There's something in it that's goading. There must be. But Lawliet holds the pen so pathetically, it's a wonder how he does what he does for a living. Hockey is violent. Far more violent than a wimpy needle.

"Please, Light-kun?"

Sick with frustration—and the smell of sugary vomit—Light helps Lawliet get to a seated position on the edge of the tub. He closes the lid on the toilet, and sits with Lawliet's legs on either side of him.

Holding the pen in his hand, still wrapped in gauze, he waits for Lawliet to ask about it. He doesn't.

"So, same as the first time?" Light asks, filling the empty space.

"Precisely."

"Okay."

Lawliet pinches the fat of his stomach, and Light's own gut rolls, dark and heavy. He gets his second lesson in type 1 diabetes management: bolusing, and the purpose of a fast acting disposable insulin pen.

As he's done exactly one time before, Light drives the pen into Lawliet's flesh just as he finishes speaking. Like butter, it offers no resistance.

"Just like that," Lawliet mutters, muffled from the shirt in his mouth. One of his canines protrudes more than the rest of his teeth, clamping down on the fabric.

As instructed, Light counts down from ten, slower than he'd like to. It is supremely uncomfortable to sit between his teammate's legs, in nothing but his underwear no less.

"You really couldn't do this yourself?" Light bites, irritated. "You must have had to the night I helped you to your room."

"That was a low. This is a high."

"Right. You know, for someone with a lifelong illness, you act like you've never done this before," Light says, holding firm.

Lawliet flinches, owl-eyed and suddenly very interested in the floor tile. He sticks a shaking thumb in his mouth. It flicks at his canine.

"Oh," Light says. "…You've never had to do this yourself, have you?"

"Light-kun should mind his business."

"Is it that big a secret?"

"Leave me be."

"But—"

"Light-kun doesn't care about me." Lawliet snaps, forlorn. "He made that apparent at dinner."

Light sighs, withdrawing the pen and tossing it in the trash with an angry swoosh. "You should be wearing your bracelet. What if something were to actually happen to you?"

"Can I lie on the bed?" Lawliet asks, dismissive. "I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack."

"No," Light snaps. "Go to your own room."

"But I don't know if we bolused enough. I don't want to die next to Matsuda."

"Good god." Light rolls his eyes, helping Lawliet to his feet. "I guess we'll both get in trouble if Coach finds you in the hallway."

Lawliet doesn't so much as offer a word of thanks—for the aid or for the extended stay—he merely grumbles, peeling off his drenched sleep shirt and dabbing his damp forehead with it, leaving Light alone in the bathroom.

Letting curiousity get the better of him, Light takes the opportunity to rifle through the medical pouch, pulling out what he discovers is Lawliet's passport. Eager to glean anything, considering how little information there is of Lawliet on the internet, he comes to discover that the L in L. Lawliet doesn't stand for anything. There is simply no first name listed on his passport. No first initial either.

As he scans, he discovers that there isn't a place of birth listed. Just three letters: unk. His birthday is listed as January 1st, 1982. The day after tomorrow.

"Light-kun?" Lawliet hollers. "Water?"

Light hurriedly closes up the supply pouch, and brings it along with two glasses of water over to his bed—where Lawliet is curled up in a ball. He has taken all of the blankets with him.

"Feeling better?" Mogi asks.

"Terrible, actually."

"Must've been the crepes," Mogi snickers. Still struggling to find something to watch. "I bet being in your own room would help."

"He's just staying until his stomach settles," Light chimes in. "Coach might still be patrolling. What are we watching?"

"It's all girl shit," Mogi bemoans. "I dunno, you guys pick something."

"I don't care what we watch," Light says.

"Well I don't either."

It goes on like this, until they settle on film starring Hideki Ryuga, after Lawliet accidentally lets slip his passionate hatred for the figure skater. Mogi rents it just to get under his skin, which doesn't help his already bad mood. Light doesn't push back because he's secretly been wanting to see this one—with Sayu—for a while now. It's a romantic comedy called Breaking the Ice. As soon as it starts, they all can tell it is going to be absolutely awful.

Lawliet keeps getting up to pee. On the fourth trip to the bathroom in under an hour, he says they "overdid it" and need to order room service. Mogi assumes they're talking about booze, not insulin, and is utterly delighted when Lawliet sends up milk and cookies. Enough for three. Enjoyed by two.

One hour into the film, Mogi is sound asleep. Lawliet is not.

He stirs, uncomfortably, and Light can feel just how much of a mess he's made. There are crumbs in the bed, sharp underneath him.

"Finally dying?" Light whispers, keeping his eyes on the screen.

"I'll check my blood sugar again when I go to relieve myself. But yes. Probably."

Light exhales out his nose. The character in the film has suffered a devastating blow to his ACL, which appears to be the climax of the film.

"…You weren't, you were actually okay when you came here, right?"

"Is Light-kun worried about me?"

"Worried you'll accidentally kill yourself just to prove a point, maybe," Light jokes, anxiously. "We need you to make it to the playoffs."

"…Perhaps he should keep better watch over me, then," Lawliet utters, turning to lie flat on his back. "How is his hand doing?"

"Oh." Taken aback, Light rubs the tender skin over his knuckles. Still wrapped in gauze. "It's just a precaution."

Lawliet hums, and it's loaded. Licking at his lip where Light socked him, hard enough to draw blood. Instead of prodding, he merely sits with his hands behind his head, rolling his body into a more comfortable position.

"Ryuga is a far better skater than actor," he mutters, closing his eyes.

A half hour passes, and the credits roll. It is dark in their room, and there is no sound save for Mogi's distant snoring, and Lawliet's not so distant breathing. Right beside him. Oceans away.

Light watches the rise and fall of his chest. Studies the bruises left by his own hands. He really does resemble a corpse.

Light inches forward, just to get a better look, but in doing so rocks the bed. Lawliet lets out a small whimper at the disturbance.

Light jolts back to his original resting place just as Lawliet opens his eyes.

"Are you awake?" he whispers, soft.

No. No, Light is not. The ensuing heat that pools in his belly at hearing Lawliet's voice shocks his heart into overdrive. Panicked, like in the Reapers dressing room.

Fuzzy, like his childhood basement.

Chapter Text

"I could fucking kiss you, Light Yagami," Kiyomi nettles into the phone. Her voice can be so ugly; it is especially so first-thing in the morning. "When does your bus pull out of Ottawa?"

"Uhh, ten," Light mumbles, wiping the sleep from his eye.

"So you should be rolling into the Fairmont around three?"

"Yeah, I guess. Why? What time is it?"

"Seven thirty. Turn on the tv."

"Just a sec."

"Are you watching?"

"One second," Light grumbles, sitting up.

The air is cold, but it hasn't weakened that thin, acidic chocolate smell still permeating their hotel room. Still mostly dark, save for the sliver of daylight cutting through the curtains.

Flipping on his side—expecting to see Lawliet gawking like a zoo animal—Light finds that he's alone. No one else, in either bed. No dirtied sleep shirt on the floor. No medical pouch on the nightstand. He runs a hand over the empty space on the mattress. It is still warm.

"Are you seeing this!" Kiyomi cries, and he has to pull the phone away from his ear so as not to shatter his eardrum. "We hit the jackpot, Light!"

"Sorry?"

He flicks on the tv, turning to a random channel.

"You're everywhere."

"…I can see that."

Channel after channel. They're all playing some variation of the same thing, and it all makes sense as to why she's so happy. Killer on Killer fight at the Canadian Tire Centre between mysterious hockey legend and promising young hockey prodigy. This is publicity you can't buy. This is mainstream media, and his rivalry with Lawliet has completely captured it.

The clip itself is only around thirty seconds, give or take. The cameras pan to the penalty box after the whistle. It isn't even the whole scrap, but it's apparently enough. Enough of a show to have piqued the interest of the entire arena. A fight so unexpected, so peculiar in nature that, come this morning, it is the talk of every major news network that basic cable has to offer.

"This is big," Kiyomi thrills, listing off names of players who also managed to milk their fifteen minutes for as many years. "Do you think SNL will do a skit? Ooh! I bet I could get you on! You know what, give me a couple hours to—"

"Takada." Worry shoots up his spine. "This is great. For the both of us. I completely agree. But we're taking this a little fast. Don't you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"I have complete faith in you," he coos; he has to if he has any chance of evading another shirtless photoshoot. "And I know you're never one to waste an opportunity, especially one as rare as this. I'm no expert, but don't you think it's a little…low of us, to be the ones begging for scraps here?"

"…I'm listening."

"Every network in the nation is gonna wanna talk to us. You said it yourself, Takada. This is going to be big, and not just for me, or the Yagami brand," he insists, laughing demurely, right when he detects her hesitation. "I just know it. But…I'm worried that if we make ourselves too accessible from the start, we lose all our leverage. Again, I'm no expert."

Silence, thick and tense. He'll be damned if he's breaking it first.

"I suppose you're right." she says, and relief sweeps over him. Just like that, he has her wrapped around his finger. "We'll just have to see how the cookie crumbles."

"Cool," Light says. Her mention of cookies shocks his hand away from the spot where Lawliet was sleeping. He dusts crumbs onto the floor. "Okay, I'm gonna let you go—"

"Wait! Will I see you tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"At the Winter Classic?"

"I'm not playing. I thought you heard?"

"I'm not talking about the game. Yotsuba's hosting an all out bash. They throw one every year."

"Yotsuba Records?"

"You're on the guest list," Kiyomi boasts, like she ought to get a medal for doing her fucking job. "You can thank me by buying me a drink. Wear red."

His throat tightens. "I'd love nothing more."

"Great, it's a date," she purrs, ending the call with an impish giggle. It's going to be a long day.

He readies himself for the hours ahead, putting the call out of his mind, and wheels his suitcase to Lawliet's door. On the other side of it, he's surprised to see that it's Mogi who answers. Laughing so hard that it's coming out like a wheeze.

"What's so funny?"

"Well if it isn't my friend, Light Yagami," Mogi snorts at an alarming volume, "come on in, buddy."

It takes him only a fraction of a second to put the pieces together. Lawliet's bed is still empty. Still made. Matsuda's is not.

"Don't freak out," a voice says. A voice he's known all his life. "It isn't what it looks like."

"What the fuck?" Light exclaims, blood spiking as he walks in on his sister in his goaltender's bed.

"Did he touch you?"

"Oh my god. You're such a cop."

"Answer the question," Light demands. "Where is he? I'm gonna kill him."

On cue, in a white tee and a pair of boxers, Matsuda emerges from the bathroom. Having the gall to fucking yawn, like he isn't marching to his death. Mogi makes no effort to warn him. Good.

"Oh, yikes," he mutters, seeing Light.

"What the fuck, Matty?!"

"I can explain! She—"

"Matty, I swear to god if you did anything—"

"N-nothing happened! Nothing happened!"

"She's Light's sister, you sick fuck," Mogi chirps, laughing so hard he nearly trips over his feet.

"I said nothing happened! Really!" Matsuda spurns, back pressed into the wall like he'll phase through it if he tries hard enough. "Listen, last night was kind of a mess. Everyone stayed til close. Chiko kept buying us rounds."

Light scowls, taking a step forward. Matsuda immediately restructures his strategy.

"I mean Mrs. Yagami! Mrs. Yagami kept buying rounds! And, and your sister was stealing shots from the table when no one was looking! By the time we realized what was going on, she was drunk as a skunk! What was I supposed to do?"

"Not take her to your room!" Light yells. "What the hell is wrong with you!"

"Chill out, Light!" Sayu shouts. "God, you're worse than Dad."

"I slept on the couch," Matsuda says, open palms out to face him. His eyes are beginning to water. "She was sick, and throwing up so I let her use the washroom, and p-put her in my bed—I took the couch."

Light grits his teeth, surveying the room. In the corner, a set of wrinkled sheets are splayed out over the loveseat. There's a glass of water on the floor, next to a pair of ratty jeans. A bucket beside the bed. His sister's phone on top of it, plugged into Matsuda's ratty charger.

"Light," Matsuda pleads, "I swear. I would never—"

"I don't want to hear it," he says, and that's the closest thing to an apology Matsuda's going to get, deserved or not.

"Where's Mom?" Light asks his sister.

"I dunno."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"Home, probably."

"Why wouldn't you go with her? Does she know you slept in a hockey player's hotel room?"

"She got so fucked up one of your teammates had to take her keys," Sayu spits, provoked. "Don't take your high and mighty shit out on me. I didn't even see her leave."

"How is that possible?"

"I was in the washroom. When I came back, she was gone."

"She just left you?"

"Light," Sayu laughs. The shape of it turns his insides to compost. "Be for real for like a fucking minute."

"What if she's worried? What if she thinks something happened to you? Did you even think to call her?"

"It would take that woman like, a month to notice if something happened to me."

"That's not true."

"It kinda is."

"It's not."

"Why are you taking her side?" Sayu seethes, jumping out of the bed—fully clothed. Thank god.

"Wait…who drove her home?" Mogi asks.

"I don't know," Sayu shrugs. "Some fucking guy. Who cares?"

"Uhh, Dad?" Light says.

She snorts. "Okay."

"You don't work with him. If he finds out about this, he's going to lose it," Light bites, blood really beginning to boil. "And I'm gonna have to be the one to deal with it. I'm on the road with him every day."

"And I'm stuck in that fucking house! You're not a martyr, Light!" Sayu growls, glassy eyed.

He can't take it, seeing the way her breath hitches. So he wraps her in his arms so he doesn't have to.

"I'm sorry," Light utters. He is. "But if I let him find out about Mom, that she—"

"Brought a guy home?"

Light shivers from the image. "Don't say it like that. You're making it sound like—"

"Well we don't know," she interrupts, wiggling out of the hug. "She might've."

"No. There's no way. I don't know what was going through her head. It's just not like her to—"

"Light," Sayu scolds, glaring. Hands firmly on her hips. "You're not this stupid."

He falters. It's almost funny. This conversation feels so much like home. She sounds so much like Dad.

Shaken, he remembers they aren't alone, and glances back.

Mogi and Matsuda watch, awkwardly idling near the door. Somewhere amidst the chaos, Lawliet joined them. Still in his black briefs and a baggy sleep shirt, he's holding an industrial sized serving tray. Overflowing with pastries.

"Did you steal a tray of pastries?" Light asks, dumbfounded.

"In your underwear?" Matsuda adds. "What did the front desk girl say?"

"Nice cock, can I suck it?" Mogi jokes as he nabs a pastry. Light doesn't have it in him to argue macros, so he doesn't say anything. "Crown jewels on full display there, bud. Congrats, by the way."

"No one bothered me," Lawliet remarks, unfazed, with a mouth stuffed full of strawberry danish. "I am a famous hockey player, what would they say?"

"Don't take that, maybe?" Light offers.

"Continental breakfasts are free, Light-kun."

"Guys," Matsuda warns, poking his head out the door. "I think I hear Coach coming."

"Shit." Sayu scrambles. "I'm outta here."

"Wait," Light says, grabbing her by the shoulder. "Do you need money for a cab?"

"Hell yeah," she says with a smirk.

"You were never here," Light whispers, pulling out his wallet and handing her a crisp twenty.

"Don't gotta tell me twice."

She takes two more, then pulls him in for one last hug to whisper in his ear: "I think the weird one has a hard on for you, by the way. He got all mopey when you left dinner."

Light doesn't respond. Not to her words, or to the sudden bout of butterflies circling in his gut.

"It was really nice to meet you," Matsuda says, and that's all it takes to slaughter the butterflies. That, and the way his little sister goes in for a hug, and kisses Matsuda on the fucking cheek.

"I'll be watching tonight," Sayu says excitedly. "Win one for me?"

"I'll do my best." Matsuda blushes.

Against all odds, Light manages to get Sayu out of the hotel, Lawliet his morning bolus, and the kitchen staff their tray back; all under Soichiro's nose, and without murdering his goalie to boot.

As for his mother, if she's fine—and really, if she isn't—he'll find out, eventually.

"Welcome back to Coach's Corner. I'm standing here with Soichiro Yagami, Head Coach of the New Jersey Killers," Rem says into the camera, voice even and unaffected. It's hard to tell if she ever has a horse in these races. "Unfortunate loss tonight."

"Yes, it was certainly a tough one. We were down two of our best players."

"Was the team feeling put out tonight at all?"

"A few of our younger guys were missing Light's encouragement. I'm just glad they fought as hard as they did."

"I understand it's the first time the Killers have played in the Winter Classic. How was the experience overall?"

"A real privilege."

"Anything to say to Toronto?"

"We'll get 'em next time," Soichiro says, emotions under strict lock and key. Not that Rem seems interested on pushing any of his buttons. That's more Ryuk's style.

"Thank you for your time—"

"Speaking of," Ryuk cuts in just as the broadcast is about to end. He's dressed in his most elaborate suit yet: gold satin, head to toe. "Where is the duelling duo? Chasing tail? Looking for a midnight smooch?"

"I sincerely hope that they are resting and recouperating."

"Would you put that thing away?" Rem nips. Until now—the end of the interview—he's been hovering behind her, playing on a Gameboy Advance SP. One he alleges he got from Santa.

"Coach Yagami," Ryuk interrupts, charging in frame, "just before we set ya free: what's the deal with your backup goalie?"

"Excuse me?"

"Word on the street is Touta Matsuda's beem promoted to staring goaltender. Any buyer's remorse there?" Ryuk jokes. "Kid's an airhead!"

"No, no buyer's remorse," Soichiro assures, moustache twitching with insult. "Matty is an all around great guy. Still green, sure, but he takes direction well and gives it his all. I couldn't ask for more in a goaltender."

Light grimaces, digging his nails into the bartop as he watches on the screen. He wouldn't be singing the bastard's praises if he knew what Matsuda was up to last night.

He's standing in the Winter Classic's VIP Lounge, a massive private box overlooking the outdoor arena. Everything is Yotsuba branded. Yotsuba coasters. Yotsuba cups. Yotsuba shotgirls and A&R reps, who flutter by the dozens. Everyone keeps giving him business cards.

He doesn't know much about the music industry giant, but he does know to keep his head down and purge his pockets before Kiyomi catches wind that there are people of interest, who are interested.

He smoothes out his tie—ox blood, 100% silk—and readjusts his cuff links for the twelfth time. It feels good to busy his hands. So good, that he orders a second drink to finish off his viewing of Coach's Corner. Gin, soda, topped with a lime. The bar is open for people like him, but he leaves a crisp ten dollar bill anway. It's the right thing to do.

"Good lord," someone says, with a familiar timbre. "Buyer's remorse? What kind of question is that?"

"A fair one," Light argues, offering the woman up a seat. "We've all got to earn our stripes."

She smiles, setting down her purse. "Not you, it seems."

"I'm the exception to the rule."

"That so?"

"How are you, Naomi?"

"Well," she says, and her face completely betrays her tone. The bags under her eyes aren't helping.

"Something troubling you?" Light asks. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure," she quips, looking over the cocktail menu. "Pretty shit, if you're really asking."

"What happened?"

Her smile—small, fraudulent as it is—is airtight. "Sorry," she says, "I shouldn't have said anything. I don't want to bother you with this."

"I'd like you to."

"Mmn…" She teeters, and it's like he can see her weighing the scales. He knows just how to tip them in his favour.

"There aren't many people in our line of work you can trust," Light coaxes, twirling his gin. "But you can trust me. If you need an ear, I'm here for you."

"Well…they canned my article."

"Oh."

"I'm out of a job."

He was expecting, well, not that.

Light combs through his memories of Montreal, of their time at that little cafe. Her questions were insightful, and he'd responded appropriately. He hadn't made any off-colour remarks. He hadn't thrown anyone under the bus. He was perfect. There's no reason for them to wash it. So why did they?

"…Was it the fight?"

"No, not really. I mean yes, but," she laughs, depreciatingly, "they wanted me to spin it into some sensationalist TMZ garbage."

"And you refused?"

"Yep," she says, popping her mouth.

She very well could have stooped to an ethical low to get her byline in print. It shocks him that she didn't. That someone in her line of work wouldn't.

"What are you drinking?"

"Wine, by the gallon if they've got it," she jokes, burying her head in her hands.

He flags down the bartender, orders, and tips. It's the right thing to do.

"…I'm sorry, for what it's worth," he says, sliding the glass of red wine across the bartop.

"You know. I don't think I am. I don't want to jeapordize my integrity."

"You might be in the wrong industry, then," he jokes.

"You might be right."

She takes a drink, and he doesn't know what else to say, so he takes one too. It's too loud to really hear, anyway. The room is near overflowing with bodies. Agents. Celebs. Players from all sorts of teams.

A handful of the Toronto Bells burst into the lounge, chanting and ringing cheap plastic bells. They're the most obnoxious team in the league, and they've just won the Winter Classic. What a way to ring in the new year.

"He had it coming," Naomi says, breaking their silence. "Lawliet, I mean. I say that with love. You got him good. It's about time someone knocked that chip off his shoulder."

"You make it sound like you're friends."

"In a certain sense, I guess you can say we are."

That catches him off guard. "You guys talk a lot?"

"Mn, these days? Not as often as I'd like." She darts her eyes down. They flutter. Soft, girlish.

"When was the last time you talked?"

"Montreal, the day of our interview. I haven't been able to get a hold of him since," she says. "I wanted to thank him, you know, for hooking us up."

Light's brow kicks up. "Thank him for what?"

"For putting us in touch. Didn't he tell you? I happened to be in the city and reached out to see if he wanted to grab dinner, and he set the whole thing up for me. I think he knows I've been struggling. I haven't been working as much, these days. I'm getting married."

"Right," Light says, taking a long sip of his drink.

"It's so weird. We talk. I go back to my room and try to give his room a ring, but I guess the phone was out."

Light swallows, heat rising in his cheeks as he recalls only gray sweatpants and hushed moans. "He must've been on the other line."

"I thought so too. But it wasn't working in the morning, either. Go figure."

"You called in the morning?"

"Tried to," she says with a shrug. "But that's what a friendship with Lawliet is, on his terms. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that, now that you're playing together."

She's lying. She must be. But she so clearly isn't, not from the way she's so loosely chatting with him, and guzzling her wine. The phone never rang that morning. He'd remember.

Did it ring?

"Are you alright?" Naomi asks.

"Yes," Light squeaks, wondering what in god's name made her ask him that. He must be acting strange. Water. He'll have a water, next.

"Anyway, I'm gonna go try to find my fiance. I know he's bumbling around. You going to the afterparty?"

"I didn't know there was one."

"Well, stay away from Lind if you do."

"Who?"

"Lind Taylor. TMZ. Dude's a creep."

"Good to know," he says, tongue like sandpaper. "See you there?"

"Nah. I don't wanna be a buzzkill. No one feels like they can let loose around journalists. Happy New Year, Light," she says with a small shrug and then disappears.

Before Light has a moment to breathe, to sort out this Montreal-phone-thing, a clawed hand digs into his shoulder, commanding his attention.

"I've been looking all over for you," Kiyomi purrs, not unlike a mountain lion.

"Have you now?"

"You're a hard man to nail down. Love the suit."

She plops herself right into Naomi's barstool, dressed in a blood red, floor length gown. They match. They fucking match. It looks like they did this intentionally.

"It's killer, one might even say," Kiyomi giggles, gripping his bicep under the guise of examining the expensive fabric. Her presence, her outfit, and her attempts at humour with a fucking pun. Light grins, sharply.

"You would not believe the day I've had. Sakura's been up my ass since you landed. God. The nerve of them. I've already told three people to fuck off."

"That's lovely."

"Ugh, chips! So below our paygrade. We're on prime time news, for god's sake! Fucking vultures," Kiyomi needles, with no hint of irony. "So, what am I drinking?"

"Martini with a twist?" he says to the bartender. It's a stab in the dark. A drink name he's heard in a million different American films. If she doesn't like it, she can choke on it for all he cares.

"How did you know?"

"Just a lucky guess," he spits through a smile. She's still touching him.

"I have a feeling you'll get plenty lucky tonight, if you want to," she jokes, getting in too close for comfort. She folds herself like a plastic straw until he can see all the way down her dress. He makes a point not to look. "Did you happen to hear who is hosting the after party?"

"No, I haven't really been mingling."

"Everyone's been so fucking tight lipped about it," she scoffs, nodding in thanks to the bartender as he sets down her drink. She sips, hums, and then wraps an arm around the back of his barstool. Like she's announcing to the room that this is her prize. Her gilded dollar sign in ox blooded silk.

"Let's loosen up. Work the room. I'm sure someone'll let it slip. In the meantime we might just be able to milk an endorsement or two out of Yotsuba. How would you like to have tickets to any concert, any time? I can play these balding music types like a fucking fiddle. Whatever you want, Light. Just tell me and I'll make it happen."

"Takada," he says, fighting not to regurgitate his drink. "You look so beautiful tonight."

Silence. Sweet silence, as she drinks in the compliment.

"I appreciate how much you look out for me, for us," Light says. "But, aren't you owed a night off as well? A little fun?"

"I like that idea."

Her mouth parts in satisfaction, watching a young blonde girl in spandex do a cartwheel on the television. Flattery has always been his best weapon.

"I hate this prissy little bitch so much," she bites, massaging circles into Light's back. He doesn't know when it started. Water. He needs water. "Slept her way to the top—"

"Heeeeeeyyyyyyy fuckers! Party's here!"

The unmistakable voice of one Kanzo Mogi booms behind them, shocking her hand away. Mogi grabs Light's barstool and shakes it with both hands, excited or tipsy or some combination of the two. Light nearly falls out of his seat.

"Stop dry humping the chair, you fucking zoo animal," Kiyomi chides. "You're in public."

"Is this the lovely Miss Takada?" Mogi bows, wobbling. So both. "A pleasure."

"The pleasure's yours. Excuse me, Light," Kiyomi dismisses, rising from her chair. Opening her clutch and rooting around for a lighter. "I'm going for a cigarette. Come find me when you're done babysitting."

Kiyomi disappears, and a small dance floor opens up in the middle of the room. Light spots Matty and Ide. A few of the other Killers, too.

The Scouts are here. Must be in town for a game. Frankenstein fistbumps in a black and gold getup, chugging from a flask. It looks as though security is waiting for him to bump into the speaker one more time so they can kick him out on his ass.

Off to the side, from a dimly lit door, three shadows emerge. A man that Light has never seen before. Another, this one Light recognizes as the Scouts head coach. And Lawliet, with them.

Lawliet, dressed to the nines in an emerald velvet suitjacket. Accented with a crisp, open collared white button down that would put Kiyomi's v-neck to shame. His hair is slicked back, having seen an actual hairbrush; but it is still far too wild, too disobedient for every hair to stay in place. Black slacks. Black oxfords to match. Save for his haunting gait and dark undereyes, he is utterly unrecognizable.

The men pat Lawliet's shoulder, whispering something in his ear, and then leave him to rot against the wall.

Light tugs at his collar, rising from his seat. He'd better get a move on before Kiyomi comes back.

Mogi hands him something neon and frothy. It's all sugar in his mouth, sickly so. But as he trudges through the tide of bodies, he keeps drinking. Hands keep reaching out for his, trying to pull him onto the dancefloor. Eventually, Kiyomi's are the ones to win, reaching from behind and yanking him close.

Lawliet leans against the wall, sullen. Picking at his scalp and flicking something onto the floor.

"Lawlipop!" someone shrieks at an impressive volume. Lawliet's posture straightens into something abnormally normal. "Ahh! Darling! I didn't know you'd be here!"

Arms of a well-dressed man sweep Lawliet into a choking embrace. Lawliet grimaces, pushing the stranger with both hands. He does not relent. The stranger only laughs, like it's a joke.

Light squeezes out of Kiyomi's clutches, patent leather oxfords slamming the floor before he can think to ask himself why.

"He doesn't like being touched," Light declares to the well dressed stranger, still facing away from him, and God, does it sound stupid. His words are muddier than his thoughts are. He needs water.

"Light-kun," Lawliet sputters, taking the opportunity to wriggle free from his assailant's grasp.

The stranger spins on his heel, and he's really no stranger at all. Light has memorized his face, his form. To this day, there is still a rolled up poster of the man before him, tucked in the very back of Light's closet.

"Hideki Ryuga, three time World Champion ice-dancer," Hideki fucking Ryuga quips. His voice is orotund, clear like crystal. Albeit an octave higher than Light was expecting. He's a few inches shorter, too.

"Hello," he says, "I'm L—"

"Light Yagami, talk of the town!"

"You know my name?" Light finds himself asking as he shakes the hand of his childhood hero.

"Everyone knows your name, darling. And might I say, my my. Aren't you a delicious little thing up close? I can see why Lawlipop can't keep his hands to himself."

"Ryuga," Lawliet growls, and it's nothing like the schoolyard taunt that Light's so used to seeing on the rink. There is genuine disdain in his face.

"I-I didn't know you were a fan of the sport," Light says, watching Lawliet continuously shove Ryuga's hand away. He keeps reaching for his waist.

"Men in skates succumbing to their baser, primal instincts? What's not to love?" Ryuga laughs, high and flighty. "Speaking of! Why don't you and Lawlipop swing by my humble abode? I'm having a little soirée to watch the countdown. I want to hear who has the smallest cock in the league, and this one won't dish."

Light winces, hearing the choppy giggle of one Kiyomi Takada approaching. In a few moments, they'll all be corralled to the after party, if she has anything to say about it.

"H-how do you two know each other?" Light asks, hoping that Kiyomi has enough basic manners to not interrupt.

"God, it's been a lifetime of tonsil-hockey, hasn't it? How did you ever make my acquaintance that first summer in Winchester?" Ryuga asks.

"I, sorry?" Light says, and Lawliet looks like he might actually drop dead.

"Canadians, so polite," Ryuga chuckles. "We used to fuck, darling."

Confidentiality and Non Disclosure: Private Social Event

The Guest acknowledges that during the Event, they may witness or overhear conversations, actions, or other private matters involving high-profile individuals.

The Guest agrees not to record audio, take photographs, or capture video during the Event.

The Guest agrees not to disclose any information from the Event in any form, whether verbal, written, or digital, without explicit consent from the Host.

Host: Hideki Ryuga

Guest(s): Light Yagami

Wisps of snow fall on the city of Toronto, where Light watches from Hideki Ryuga's lavish outdoor balcony, atop his rooftop penthouse. Complete with an infinity pool and a jacuzzi, it is both canopied and heated so as to be enjoyed even in the dead of Canadian winter. From this high up, it's like looking down on the entire universe.

Lawliet—the reason Light even has an invitation to this party—is nowhere in sight. Hideki Ryuga, obversely, is always buzzing in his periphery.

Ryuga has switched into something he dubs "more comfortable:" a speedo and a smoking jacket, and is telling an impressive, engaging story to a group of impressive engaging people.

His home is a marvel. Floor to ceiling windows. Large ornamental fixtures dangling from the ceiling. Expertly curated, surprisingly intimate. It's like being in a movie.

"Isn't it pretty?" A voice calls from behind. Clear and sunny as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, choosing to cozy up right next to him. "I'm Misa."

"Light Yagami. Have we met before?"

"No. You don't know me," she admits, almost embarrassed. "I sang at your first game, though. You were amazing. I don't know anything about hockey but I couldn't take my eyes off you. You're so fast!"

"Oh, right," he says, recalling how awful her rendition of the national anthem was. Almost as awful as her choice of attire that night. "You have a beautiful voice."

"Really? My agent says I need voice lessons."

"Your agent doesn't sound very nice."

A pearly smile splits her face in two. Unsure of what to do, and how long to do it before he can go back to his hotel, Light interviews Misa about her singing career. She self depricates. Ryuga jumps in with thinly veiled innuendoes. Kiyomi scoffs in the corner, waiting for her turn in the sandbox.

Fuzzy, Light twirls something dark and sweet—he didn't ask Ryuga—in a rocks glass. Whatever it is, it's starting to turn his muscles to jelly.

"I feel really safe with you, Light," Misa confesses, grabbing onto his arm with thin fingers. They look paper thin. He has the intrusive thought to break them. How easy something like that would be. Maybe if he did, people would finally stop touching him.

"You're a lovely girl, Misa."

"That's so kind. I don't think I've ever met anyone as nice as you."

Through the glass doors, Light catches a glimse of Ryuga loosening his smoking jacket. The herd follows. Undressing, and tailing him to the jacuzzi. Only one person stays behind, hunched and sulking as he makes for the kitchen.

"Misa, will you excuse me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're probably here with someone."

"I just need to take care of something, okay? I'll be right back."

"Sure," she beams, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'll wait right here!"

Light finds Lawliet rifling through Ryuga's (frankly, massive) fridge. He pulls out a tray of red velvet cupcakes, dusted with gold sprinkles, and helps himself to three before putting it back. Good fucking god. Bastard probably doesn't even have his supply pouch.

"Did you bolus?" Light asks, leaning against the island. It's overflowing with hors d'ouevres, but Lawliet only seems to have an appetite for what he can't have. "That's a lot of sugar."

"Alcohol is nature's insulin."

"There's no way that's true."

"Let's find out, shall we?" Lawliet says, peeling away the protective film on the bottom of the cupcake. Two minutes in Ryuga's kitchen and he's already littering it with garbage and crumbs.

"You're making a mess."

"Good," is all Lawliet mutters, mouth stuffed with cake, and it dawns on Light just how quiet the kitchen is in comparison to the rest of the house. Most people have moved to the balcony. Through the window, Hideki Ryuga and his entourage climb into the jacuzzi with frothing bottles of champagne. They're taking turns spraying each other.

"Is Light-kun having a nice time?" Lawliet asks, lapping at the frosting on his fingers.

"Ryuga's house is beautiful."

"That isn't what I asked."

"Of course I am," Light bites, defensively, plucking a champagne flute off the island. "I just came to get a drink."

"It would be rude not to bring one for Misa Amane," Lawliet quips, loathly. "That is, if he is intending to woo her."

"We just met!"

"He finds her attractive, does he not?"

"She's, she's," Light stutters, cogs in his brain more muddied than before. "What's rude is talking about someone behind their back. I wouldn't ask you about your, um, Ryuga's—"

"My sex life? If Light-kun is curious, he need only ask." Cocking his head to the side and taking a step forward, Lawliet unfurls his spine and towers over him, invading all of Light's personal space. Crumbs fall to the floor.

Light's blood buzzes, warm from the champagne. He busies himself with bubbles. Lawliet follows, watching his throat bob and downing his own glass of champagne. In one go.

"I'm pretty sure that's meant to be savoured," Light says, loosening his tie. He's still undecided on whether he'll join everyone in the pool. Ryuga, far off in the distance, calls their names.

"I have very little self control." Lawliet confesses through a snaggletoothed smile. One only a mother could love. "When I like something, I tend to overindulge."

"You're telling me," Light jokes, forehead prickling with sweat. His thoughts, so many of them orbiting Lawliet, bottleneck. "That's your third cupcake."

"And they're delicious. Would Light-kun like a taste?"

"No, I'm alright."

"Not even a little?"

Light had a plan for when he stepped into this kitchen, albeit an impulsive one. He had intended to get Lawliet talking about the nature of his relationship with Ryuga, in hopes it would uncover something clandestine and scandalous; something for when he is captain, for when Lawliet steps out of line, Light can use as collateral.

There must be a way out. For Light to have his cake, and eat it too.

"Light-kun appears lost in thought. He keeps looking at my mouth," Lawliet jests, owl-eyed. He sucks on his thumb, tongue lapping at the white frosting. Shiny, wet, and unrelenting. It's very difficult not to look.

Light feels it, then. A thudding in his chest. That sharp spike of adrenaline, one he's so used to feeling on the rink, but no so much here. Lawliet is doing what he always does. Prodding at random until he hits a sore spot. Well, two can play at that game.

"I was just," Light stalls, and a woman with long, dark hair shrieks with laughter from the jacuzzi. "I was just remembering something Naomi said, at the Winter Classic."

"Naomi Misora?" Lawliet's ears perk up. A disobedient dog never having been forced to heel.

"It's too bad she isn't here. She mentioned you when we talked. She wanted to know what you thought of Les Mis."

"Is that right?" Lawliet asks, dusting cupcake crumbs on a tea towel. His eyes, big and buggy, don't hint to any skepticism.

"I guess she and her fiancé had seen it the day after we were in Montreal. They were looking for you, hoping to get a chance to pick your brain," Light lies, knowing full well that Lawliet has no way of confirming if what he's saying is true.

"I find it hard to believe that Raye Penber would sit through two hours and fifty minutes of live theatre."

"So it was bad?" Light skewers, coughing on his drink before he finishes it, grabbing another. She's marrying Raye fucking Penber? "I realized I never even asked. Some friend I am."

"The play was wonderful," Lawliet blatantly lies, voice flat as he turns his back on Light, making for the fridge door.

"How does it end?"

Lawliet, fridge door in hand, stops. "…I wouldn't want to spoil it."

"I have no interest in seeing it, personally," Light says, and all that frenzied energy from before has shapeshifted into something giggly and snide. As soon as he takes his hands off the island to remove his cuff links, the room starts to spin, so he anchors them back down. "It's just a shame you and Naomi didn't get to talk. She said that she called your room, but couldn't get through. Pretty rude of you not to make an attempt to get in touch."

"She couldn't get through because I unplugged the line," Lawliet admits, closing the fridge door and stepping into the face-off circle with a fresh cupcake. For once, there's no whistle. No helmets. No bastard referee to pull Light back when things get ugly.

"You…unplugged it?"

"I needed to relieve some stress, and didn't want to be bothered."

The kitchen breaks off from the rest of the universe, knocking Light into space. His whole body feels like it's floating. Whatever ticklish malevolence was coursing through his gut vanishes.

"I'm sure Light-kun can understand," Lawliet says, biting his bottom lip. Chapped from the rink.

"Ten! Nine!" the balcony roars.

"Look at me."

He can't. Heat burns under his skin, craving relief. Naked bodies bob in the pool, drunk on shock and champagne. Water sloshes onto the concrete.

"Eight! Seven!"

Lawliet completely obscures his field of vision, caging Light against the kitchen island. So close, Light can smell not only his cologne, but remnants of dessert on his breath. Wild, woody, and far too clean.

"How long must I wait?" Lawliet asks in a low groan, half lidded and hazy. Soft like amber through a connecting door.

"F-for?"

"Five! Four!"

"For Light-kun to take what he wants," Lawliet rumbles in his ear. The sharp line of his jaw brushes against him. Stubbly, sharp. It shoots like lightning.

"Three, two, one!"

"To admit how much he liked watching me touch myself."

"ONE!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!"

Fireworks. Glasses clinking. The shriek of Ryuga in Light's periphery, pulling three different people in for a kiss in the span of ten seconds. A door slams in the distance. A man's voice bellows. Hideki Ryuga and all his famous friends, they look like nothing more than little paper dolls, dancing in a bathroom sink.

Lawliet whispers his name, slotting his thigh between Light's. The room spins. His heart pounds. He feels like it might give out.

"Everyone is staring," Light whispers back, and the words are gummy, stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"No one is staring."

"They are," he slurs, and the aching between his legs has kicked into overdrive, bleeding out. His chest hurts. His blood feels like battery acid. "They're watching."

"Then let them watch," Lawliet urges. The white expanse of his chest is flushed a petal pink.

"Everyone is looking at me," Light insists, and fuck, his throat wavers when he says it. He feels like a little kid. Treading water, trapped in a fishbowl. It's just so fucking hot in this kitchen, in this fucking suit.

"They signed NDAs. It doesn't matter."

That's right, isn't it? They've all signed their names on the dotted line. Agreed to terms set by magical little pieces of paper, pieces of paper that turn real life into nothing more than irefutable, iron-clad-make-believe.

Over Lawliet's shoulder, shapes manifest in the pitch-black of Ryuga's hallway. Little paper people, falling from the sky. Behind them all, a man made of shadow. A god made of nothing.

Spots prickles Light's vision. The darkness encroaches, full of wrath, shaped like his father. His tummy curdles, waiting for the sting.

Dad.

"Soichiro is at the hotel," Lawliet argues, filling a glass with tap water. It's only now that Light realizes he's said it out loud.

Limbs shaking, teeth rattling, Light's knees buckle; one at a time, in perfect synchronicity with the drip of the faucet.

Woody-warm cologne envelopes him. Water. He needs water.

Lawliet holds a glass to his mouth.

And then, morning.

Chapter Text

"Police! Open up!"

The pounding is explosive. It rivals the pressure in his head. Clanging to the rhythm of his heartbeat, and ever quickening as his senses come to him.

"We just wanna talk!"

Remnants of sleep stick to his eyelashes, stinging as he opens them. Body warm, and sticky with sweat. Sunlight streams through thin, chiffon curtains. He wakes, finding himself in a luxury hotel suite, one he does not recognize.

"Light, I'm scared."

He startles next to the body in bed beside him. It's the blonde, the one who sang at the Winter Classic. She isn't wearing any clothes.

"Can you get it?" she asks him, completely unaffected by this fact. "They sound angry."

"Yeah, uh, I got it," he tells her, playing along like this is totally normal. His voice scratchy, like he'd been shouting on the ice all night. He peels back the covers of the sprawling king size, and his hand freezes mid-air.

"What's wrong, Light?"

"I'm naked."

"Well, yeah."

"I'm not wearing any clothes."

No. He isn't. What's worse, a lime green latex condom hangs off his flaccid dick. It's all bunched up at the end.

"D-Did we have sex?"

"Not for lack of trying," she tells him, with a kind of pitying resolution in her voice. "We were pretty drunk though. It's okay if you don't remember."

The door rattles against it's hinges. Another explosion in the distance.

"Light, why are they here?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Softer than a snarl, the question still comes out too hot for his liking, so Light forces himself out of bed and runs to the washroom before he causes her to cry right there. When he slams the door, it is with so much accidental ferocity that it haults the knocking.

"Yanno! Whiskey dick is totally normal," she hollers. "A bunch of guys get it! It isn't a big deal! Don't be embarrassed!"

His skin is tacky all over, a million degrees despite being cool to the touch. He splashes cool water on his face, melting away his insult.

"Light Yagami!"

"Coming!" Light rattles, frantically covering himself with the only thing he can find: a lightly dampened hand towel, soiled from makeup. He pulls open the hotel door with one hand, covering his modesty as best he can with the other, and is greeted with chaos.

Two officers stand before him. A swarm of flashing lights behind. Dozens of paparazzi, reporters, and a handful of nosy hotel guests push and shove, snapping cameras and waving recorders.

"Can I help you?" Light asks, covering his modesty by hiding behind the door.

"Yes, thank you," one of the men says, inviting themselves in, and Light doesn't have a good reason to stop him, so he doesn't. It would be wrong to, wouldn't it?

He's never had a run in with the cops. Not as a kid, up to no good behind the bleachers. Not as a teen, sneaking into an R-rated movie with friends. He can't think of a time he's even interacted with a cop.

"Who are you guys?" the girl snaps. "Light! Light?"

"Misa-Misa, big fan. I'm Officer Denote, and this is Officer Nasberg," the short, bald one says, gesturing to his partner—who is also short and bald, but pushing an extra hundred and seventy five pounds (if Light had to guess). "We just have a few questions about one Lind. L. Taylor."

"Lind Taylor?" Light repeats, deja vu splintering his tongue. He could really use a glass of water.

"His suicide, to be specific."

"Suicide? Oh my god!" the girl shrieks. She's probably woken all the dogs in a twenty-five mile radius.

"Jumped off of Hideki Ryuga's balcony this very morning, after a party turned sour," Nasberg says with raised brows and an accusatory tone, eyeing Light. "A party, I am to understand, the two of you were in attendance of?"

Light doesn't like his tone, but at least he has the common sense to keep it to himself. The girl, on the other hand, crosses her arms and starts chewing him out. He's trying to keep up, but she's going a mile a minute and he's hit with a wave of naseau. One he breaths through. One he stomachs. Common sense and all that.

"The call came in around 2:30 am, and emergency services were on the scene shortly after," Denote declares. He pulls an itty-bitty notebook and pen out of his breast pocket, which only makes his cartoonish proportions look even sillier. "You seem surprised to hear of his death, Mr. Yagami. Was he a friend?"

"No. But. I am—"

"Acquaintance? Enemy, perhaps? Can you describe to me the nature of your relationship with Mr. Taylor, in detail, if you will?"

"Relationship?" Light barks, wide eyed. This has to be a fucking joke. "I don't know know who you're talking about. I've never even heard of a Lind Taylor. If he showed up to Ryuga's last night, it was long after I left."

"And when was that, Mr. Yagami?"

Light bristles.

"When did you say you left…Hideki Ryuga's home?"

"…Um."

He knows this. Surely.

"Because we have several eye witness statements claiming that you were the last person to speak with him." Denote smirks, toy pen hovering over his idiot kindergarten notebook. "So, again. What time did you leave Hideki Ryuga's, Mr. Yagami?"

"I-"

Light stumbles, gripping tight onto the hand towel. It's like all the blood in his brain has turned to cement. He can't remember when he left. Hell, he can't remember leaving at all. But there's no way he'd had anything to do with this guy's death.

"Leave him alone!" the girl yelps, pounding on the mattress. "We left Hideki's at twelve thirty! You can check the tapes!"

"There are no tapes, beyond elevator footage," Denote bites, not bothering to look at the girl as he's talking to her. "It's a private residence."

"Yeah, well, you can ask the front desk lady or whatever! Light didn't do anything wrong!"

"No," Nasberg agrees, pulling out his own dinky little book to match. "But we have several eye-witness accounts that corroborate Mr. Yagami getting into a verbal altercation with Mr. Taylor before leaving the residence."

"Altercation? I don't understand," Light states, smoothing over his tone before this turns ugly—which it very well could. The girl in the bed is a lunatic. "Are we in trouble? I'd be more than happy to answer any questions you have, but I really don't remember saying anything that unsavoury. Especially not anything to a degree that would make someone want to, want to hurt themselves."

"You're not in trouble, but there are rules to these things. It's required for us to investigate all sudden deaths, suspicious or not," Nasberg tells him, much to Denote's disapproval. "Whatever you guys talked about, at least according to partygoers, it didn't appear sinister; and the guy didn't decide to croak for another two hours. Happens every year. He probably felt a type of way seeing everyone coupling up and leaving the party. Yanno, it's—"

Between his legs, half hanging out of his discarded slacks, Light's phone rings. Coach Aizawa's name pops up on the display.

"I think I should answer that."

"Well we're still conducting an investigation," Denote huffs. "You can call them back later."

"Let the kid answer his phone," Nasberg argues. "While we have a few minutes, I can ask Misa-Misa for her autograph."

"If I give it to you, will you go away?" she chirps, and Nasberg smiles ear to ear, holding out his notebook.

"Fine," Denote says. "But you have to take it here, where we can hear you."

"Thank you," Light rasps, a little breathy, a little woozy. He's never felt this kind of sick before. He reaches down, one handed, and flips it open.

"Hello?"

"Light, finally. It's Coach," Aizawa says, but the connection is less than stellar. "Where the hell are you? Check out was two hours ago."

"Sorry?"

"You better be, We're about to board."

"You're boarding? Boarding now? But I'm. I'm. My things. I don't have any of my stuff."

"We have your stuff. Mogi's too."

Dozens of voices whirl in the background, but one says his name—in a very specific tone—that shoots through his ears like a runaway bullet. Worry, draped in fury. Something heavy makes a slamming sound, and then there is silence.

"…Coach?"

"Sorry, just a sec. Barricaded myself in the airplane bathroom," Aizawa pants into the line, latching something into place. "Are you and Mogi going to make it for puck drop?"

"Um."

"He's with you, right?"

"Why would he be with me?"

Aizawa's voice tightens. "Not funny. Tell me Mogi is with you."

"…I don't know where Mogi is."

"Please don't do this to me."

"Really. I don't know. I just woke up."

"You've gotta be joking."

Light laughs, feathery. "He isn't with you?"

"No he isn't with me. I'm on a plane to Edmonton minus two of my best players, and you're telling me that he isn't with you? Where are you?"

"I'm, I'm not sure."

"What do you mean you aren't sure? Where are you, Light?" Aizawa scolds, voice climbing to Soichiro heights, and then the girl in bed laughs uncomfortably at something Nasberg says. Voice squeaky and dogwhistle high and, most unfortunately, loud enough for Aizawa to pick up.

"…You've gotta be kidding me."

"Coach—"

"You're with a girl?"

"No! I'm not. I'm. I can explain," he says, even though he can't.

"What a fucking shit show," Aizawa mutters under his breath. Light can almost hear him pinching his nose through the phone. "Light. This can't get out."

"It won't." It won't because there is nothing for which to get out. The girl in his bed isn't his girlfriend and they didn't have sex. If anything, her team ought to be more frightened of this getting out. She's basically a kidnapper.

"This team has had too many scandals already."

"I know that."

"If it gets out that you're slacking because of some girl—"

"I said it won't," Light growls, holding down the fucking fort as they speak, if only the bastard would listen. Like Aizawa has any right to be the one pointing fingers, here.

"…I need you to tell me you're going to make this game."

"Yeah—"

"No, Light. I need to hear you say it. I need you to promise me you're going to be laced up, centre ice, right at seven," Aizawa commands, with a tone that suggests maybe his New Years' resolution was to grow a pair.

Light grits his teeth. "…I'll be there."

"You'll be there?"

"I'll be there, Coach."

"Okay." Relieved, Aizawa heaves the biggest sigh of his life. "I'll tell your dad you're just…already in the city. He doesn't have to know about this."

He hadn't considered Soichiro finding out, even though there isn't anything to find out.

"Thanks, Coach. I'll be there, I promise."

In the background, the fasten seatbelt sign makes a high pitched ding.

"Keep your phone on you. I'll text you when Mogi turns up."

"Okay."

"Right. Bye."

Aizawa hangs up, and the bough inside him bends to near breaking. He feels like shit. Even standing upright feels like he's running a marathon. Wanting to whip the phone at the wall, at Denote's face, he composes himself with a deep breath and checks his call-display.

Twenty three missed calls and four voicemails. The first two are from his father. The third is from Matsuda. The fourth, strangest of all, is from a place called the Toronto South Detention Centre:

"Heyyyyy Light, it's me," the recording begins. "Think I might'a screwed the pooch on this one. Heh. So, uh. Yeah. Your buddy Ryuga's a piece of shit. Can't believe I'm agreeing with Lawly on this one but, uh, fuckin' douche canoe, that one. Wouldn't even let me in to piss. Can you believe that? Oh, haha. Probably should explain. Need ya to pick me up when you get this. So uh, I'm in the drunk tank. Don't know what time it is but, uh, Happy New Year buddy. Don't tell Coach, okay? Tits on me in Eddy okay? Just get me outta here."

"What's wrong, Light?" the girl asks, and it's either in the way she says it, or the fact she says something like that at all that's making him want to bolt down the hallway naked.

"I, I need to be in Edmonton for a game," he says, phone still to his ear. "And my right-winger is in jail."

"Oh, you must mean Kanzo. Real big guy, right? He was going off about some hockey game out West," Nasberg says, nonchalant and beaming at the signature in his notebook. "We scooped him up this morning. Want a ride to the station?"

"That, that would be great!" Light exclaims. He can get to the station, settle this prison debacle, and get on the first direct flight to Edmonton. Soichiro will be none the wiser.

"Better hurry," Denote orders from behind, and there's something in the way he says it that turns Light's skin to goose flesh. Having not noticed his sudden absence, Light twists, phone in hand. His body turns to stone.

Denote, smirking like the village idiot he is, hangs in the open doorway. For some fucking reason, he's unlatched the lock, opened it to it's maximum capacity, and released the door-stop, letting in the swarm. Dozens of photographers step over one another for the shot, but they don't really need to, because everyone captures it:

A hotel room. A police officer in a windowsill. A famous singer, leering from around the corner. Clothes tossed carelessly on the floor. And at the centre of it all, Light Yagami on a cell phone, naked as the day he was born, covering himself with a hand cloth.

His oxfords slap the tarmac of Edmonton International Airport, slippery from the snow. Mogi trails behind, tripping over his shoelaces. Light suspects he's still drunk.

"I can't believe you got arrested for urinating in public," he says, even though he absolutely can believe it.

"I can't believe you slept with Misa-Misa."

"I told you, I didn't… At least I don't think I did. She said we didn't."

"You guys must've fucked. There's no other way a broad like that is letting you use her private jet unless—"

"It isn't her jet. It's the record label's," he argues, like that ought to account for anything. "Hurry up."

"Well fuck me, if it's the label's—"

"Light!" Misa shouts, hanging out the door of the aircraft. This is just a pit stop for her, since Light had successfully convinced her not to stay for his game. "You have my number, right!"

"I'll text you!" he hollers into the open air, just happy to be putting some distance between them. He has no intention of calling, but makes a big show of holding up his phone and giving it a little wiggle. She smiles, ear to goddamn ear, because of course she does.

They part like oil and water (as nature intended), and once Light and Mogi are in a cab to Rogers Place arena, he swiftly deletes her number. The cabbie is quiet. He asks for their destination, and otherwise minds his business. Thank god. He doesn't seem to recognize them.

"Your Dad's gonna be so pissed. There's no way we're making it for warm up."

"We're gonna make it."

"Like hell we'll make it. Fuck."

"There's ten minutes left. We're fine."

"Sir," Mogi anxiously asks the cabbie, wrapping his arms around the headrest of the passenger seat like a junkie looking for a fix. "How far are we from the arena?"

"…About fifteen minutes," he replies cooly. "Sorry. Fastest I can go."

"Fuck. Coach is gonna kill us."

"You, maybe," Light chirps with a thin grin. His head still pounds. "I didn't get arrested."

"Does Coach know I got arrested?"

"I didn't say anything. But who knows who saw you. That was really irresponsible. What if the press—"

"In case you haven't noticed, the press doesn't give a shit about me," Mogi bites back. "And you're one to talk. You killed a guy."

"Jesus Chr—I didn't kill a guy."

"Well, on the plane, blondie sure made it sound like you did."

Misa Amane. One of those famous girls with famous friends, trying to 'make it' in the music industry as a professional singer. She'd told the cops the truth, but only the bare bones of what actually took place. Only after she, Light, and Mogi boarded the Yotsuba private jet—thank you, nepotism—did she elaborate on her tale. From what she'd said, and what he remembers, this is what Light has been able to cobble together of that night:

Light met Hideki Ryuga at the Winter Classic. From there, he made his way to the acclaimed skater's rooftop penthouse, meeting Amane and chatting over drinks on the balcony. Lawliet was been being a menace, as per usual, and Light considered going to the kitchen to supervise his antics. That part he remembers just fine.

Here's where things get fuzzy: Around midnight, Amane came to Light's "rescue" after finding him on the floor of Ryuga's kitchen. He isn't sure how he got there. In the foyer, she (allegedly) helped him into his shoes, planning to take him home, and then they got interrupted by one Lind L. Taylor. According to her, Taylor declared himself a defunct 'writer' working for TMZ, to which Light (allegedly) said that that was an oxymoron. When asked if Light could do him a favour by agreeing to an photoshoot and an interview, Light declined, and then went on to say (allegedly) only the scum on the shoes of scum work for TMZ. He then said 'if any of these so-called-writers knew what was good for them, they'd all kill themselves.'

Long story short, apparently this Lind L. Taylor guy had a history of drinking, depression, and decided to take Light up on his suggestion. Woof.

"You must have a magic dick or something for her to lie like that to a cop."

The cabbie's hands tighten on the steering wheel, making the protective leather squeak.

"I would never say something like that to someone," Light says in earnest, and not just to ease their driver. "…I don't know why she'd make something like that up."

Far off in the distance, fog clears, and the arena comes into view. The snow picks up. Mogi hums. "…She's probably just nuts."

"Yeah?"

"She lied to a cop. That's pretty nuts."

"Yeah. I guess you're right."

"You really don't remember going to her room?"

Light adjusts his tie—he's still in his suit—and turns over his hands, flexing them. The right is stiff, still sore from his scrap in the penalty box with Lawliet. But it's also bandaged over. Dressed in gauze that he absolutely did not apply himself. It's only now that he notices.

"…I barely remember going to Ryuga's, if I'm behind honest," he utters, tugging his sleeve down.

"It's no biggie. Everybody blacks out at least once."

"I just," he begins. "I don't know."

"I can help you into your skates, before puck drop," Mogi says, giving a considerate nod to Light's dressing. What's more considerate, he doesn't ask.

"Thanks."

"…Don't worry about Taylor. It isn't like anything you said was wrong. I can hardly believe the media attention we get since Coach signed you. It's been driving me nuts, and I'm not half as famous. Good on you for telling that guy to shove it—"

"I didn't—"

"Yeah, yeah. Let's go."

"Really, I didn't. I wouldn't," Light protests, as Mogi flounces out of the cab with far too much vigor for someone who had spent the night in the drunk tank.

"Ok, buddy."

Light shimmies to get out on Mogi's side, but the bile in his gut splashes up his throat. He dry heaves, nearly falling out of the cab.

"You good?"

"I'm good," Light says, trying not to vomit. He's good.

"Right on. Pay the man. We gotta game to play."

"You're not playing. Either of you."

By some grace of God, they make it to the guest dressing room before puck drop, just as promised. So Light has no idea why Aizawa's letting the stick up his ass talk for him.

"I'm here, though?" Light says, as doe-eyed and impeccant as his body will allow him. Sure, he hadn't had a chance to take a look at his hair, and the room is still spinning a little, but he'd made a promise to play. What's the problem?

"You weren't here for warm up."

"No. But I'm here now."

"That isn't good enough, Light."

"You didn't ask me t—"

"You know how it works, don't pretend like you don't," Aizawa says, waving around his clipboard like some fat angry mother in the kitchen with a spatula. "Because you weren't here for warmup, you're not on the game sheet. Those are the rules."

"But—"

"Mogi isn't on it either, if that makes you feel better."

"Why are you doing this? What's your problem?" he finds himself asking. It's like his tongue is a runaway train that he has no control over stopping. "You asked me to be here and I'm here!"

"I asked you to make this game, and don't give me the rookie shtick. You know to be here for warmup, and you weren't. Your Dad is furious."

"With who?" Light asks, gaze sharp and arms folded. He's no stranger to sparring to get what he wants, and he has a hunch about the crease in Aizawa's brow. Light suspects he isn't the only one to have been reamed out today. "Well?"

Aizawa shifts uncomfortably. Bingo.

"I can talk to him, y'know. He listens to me," he tells Aizawa, voice low, naif, and unsuspecting.

"It isn't a matter of Coach listening, Light. There's a, a system with these things."

"And who is in charge of that system?" Light asks. "You said it yourself, this team can't afford another scandal. Do you have any idea how many times I've been photographed inside this building? If I'm not out there at seven, the press are gonna have a lot of questions for you after the game. But," Light pauses, lightening his tone. "I guess I won't have to answer any of them, since I'll be back at the hotel."

"…Let me find your father," Aizawa groans, bested as he flees the dressing room, which is now buzzing with adrenaline.

Everyone shifts into game mode, playing their pump-up songs at ear splitting volumes and making last-minute adjustments to their gear. Focused, distracted, no one seems to bat an eye as Mogi helps Light into his skates. No one is looking at him. Not even Lawliet, Light thinks.

He thinks something else, after that; as if struck with a bolt of telepathy, Lawliet's gaze snaps on him.

Hungry to win, Light discards the thought, and fills his belly with water.

"You good?" Coach Aizawa asks, leaning over the players' bench, holding out a water bottle.

"Yu-" Light begins to say, throat spasming. He grunts, coughing to cover up his body's natural reflex to barf up stomach acid right onto the ice. Begrudgingly, he takes the bottle from his hand. Cold and fruity electrolyte-pumped sports drink floods his mouth. If he has any more, he's not sure he'll make it through the whole period without having to piss.

"You sure?" Aizawa asks again, and yes, he's sure. It took near grovelling on hand and foot to even lace up. Of course he's sure. "It's just—"

"I'm good."

"Okay. It's just—"

"I promised I'd be here," Light says with a tight smile. "I'm ready to play."

"Yeah, but…"

"Last night I didn't play, and last night we lost. I made a promise to be here, and I'm here." Unsure why Aizawa's got his panties even more in a twist than before he'd had permission to play, Light swishes his tongue around his teeth and spits on the ice floor. Blue raspberry. Blegh.

"I know, but your Dad says you look a little—"

"If you're gonna let me play, can you just shut up and let me play," Light grits, too fast to take it back, too sick to his stomach to feel sorry for it. Everything hurts, compounding on top of itself. It's like the headache he had from this morning migrated and metastasized into every single crevice.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry," Light corrects, quick as a dime. "I don't know what's gotten into me."

His father looks to be deep in debate with a linesman, so it's safe to say he doesn't hear the blatant disrespect. He can't say the same for the guys on the bench. Whatever. It's not like they're bringing home a trophy without him. If they know what's good for them, they'll take his advice, too.

He half expects Aizawa to cross his name off the game sheet right there, but he doesn't. Instead, Aizawa's brow softens into something sickly soft, something Light's most used to seeing on his mother's face when he'd be home sick from school. It sends a chill down his spine.

"Light… Are you sure you're alright?"

Light skates off, I'm fine trailing behind like a cloud of dust. And he is; even though his bones are screaming to be horizontal and his hands are trembling under his mitts.

"If you say so." Aizawa shrugs, frown lines deep as his eyes flick up to the scoreboard. "Show 'em who's boss."

It's the top of the first period, and he's facing off against the captain of the Edmonton Mafia, with Mogi by his side. Lawliet, benched, hangs off his stick like a sopping wet rag; all slack jawed and drooping eyelids as he sits second-fiddle.

Light skates out to centre ice. The arena goes dark. Over the loudspeaker, the emcee announces his name. The crowd boos.

"Not the warmest welcome to the city, is it?" the Mafia's team captain says, greeting him with a gloved handshake. That's a first.

"Hey," Light says, shaking his hand.

"Rod Ross. Welcome to Edmonton."

"Uhh, thanks," Light replies, confused by his friendly demeanour and colourful appearance. Rod Ross is big and bald, with an expertly manicured tiny little pencil moustache. The embroidered letter C on his jersey, bright orange against dark blue, blooms red in the near darkness of the arena. The blade of his stick beams seven different colours.

"Pride tape. Holds up well. It isn't standard regulation, but it's important, y'know," Ross says, catching him staring. All the guys have colourful sticks.

"Isn't the team gonna get fined?"

"Sure, probably," Ross says with a smirk. "But what's a fine in the grande scheme of things?"

"Uhh, yeah," Light says, wavering a little, and then the referee saves him from having to continue this bizarre conversation. He skates up to centre ice, drops the puck, and before Light can even blink, Ross swipes it.

Light curses under his breath, doubling back into the defensive zone. Ide, useless fuck, barely tries to get possession. He's like a horse sleeping standing up. Ross is in the end zone in a matter of seconds.

"Open your fucking eyes, Ide!" Light screams, persuing. The guy's big. It doesn't make sense how he's also this fast.

"Help, help!" Matsuda wails, taking repeat shots to the chest. By the fourth, he manages to catch the puck in his glove. "I need to pass to someone!"

"On it!" Mogi bellows, jumping over the boards and sprinting to Matsuda's rescue, since Ide's only concern is smelling the fucking roses.

It takes a hell of a lot of fight from the two of them, but Mogi manages to get the puck back to Light before the end of the first period. There's been so much back and forth that nearly everyone is out of breath, and out of water, without a single goal on the scoreboard to show for it.

Light crosses the centre line, with Mogi right behind him. They barrel into the opposition's D-zone. This is his chance.

"Mafia's doing the box system," Mogi pants, wind whipping his face. "Just noticed now."

"Shit, okay," Light replies, configuring a plan. The box system is a play in which all players form a literal box in front of the goalie. Tightly packed in front of the net, it forces the opposition to have to shoot from far away. The further away you are, the less likely you're going to score. All Light can do is buy himself time until someone lifts their stick off the ice and gives him a window.

That…or charge through the herd, risking a penalty.

"What are you doing!" Mogi shouts, veering to the outside. "They're twice your size!"

Light flashes him a self-assured grin. They've got three of a potential five in front of the goaltender, and Ross is only just now doubling back. In ten seconds, it'll be too late. Light won't have a chance.

"Cover me," Light huffs, and charges.

"You're fuckin' nuts!"

Everyone rises from their seats. The guys hang over the players bench, trying to get a better view. Even his father watches, going so far as to pull down his glasses; and it's good that he did, because what happens next is a thing of beauty.

Not the way Light ducks under the box of bodies, sliding into the crease, before Ross even crosses the centre line. Not the way everyone's helmets smash into one another as they fall like snowflakes onto the ice floor. Not even the goal itself, which Light only barely makes before he barrels through the net himself. No, none of that.

What's beautiful is the moment after. After the siren blares and the 'kindest crowd in the country' descends into humiliated madness. After the Killers players' bench, a young volcano, explodes in celebration. After Lawliet, walking corpse, springs to life.

It's when his father cracks the smallest of smiles, thankful to have put him back on the game sheet. Thankful to have listened, he thinks. Light skates over to the bench, rabid and gleeful.

"How was that?"

"Good stuff," Aizawa says, and not a word more.

"Yes, that was quite impressive," Lawliet adds, sucking on the head of his water bottle. "How is Light-kun feeling?"

"Good," Light croaks, parched. In truth, he feels like a bag of bricks dropped in dog shit, and his voice completely gives it away, but scoring the only goal of the game has a way of putting a little pep in one's step. He can survive running out the clock beside Lawliet.

"Water?" Lawliet asks, handing over his bottle. The tip of it is chewed to shit, shiny with spit.

"Uh, no thanks."

"I'm surprised, considering…"

"Considering what?"

"No need to be testy, Light-kun. You were just so eager last night. I think it has me experiencing a bit of whiplash."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asks, grabbing the bottle just to put an end to this conversation.

He drinks, and drinks, as Lawliet watches with a steely expression. He's then suddenly struck with an inexplicable bout of deja vu.

"There," Light says, setting down the near-empty bottle on the bench.

Lawliet fidgets, pulling a knee up to his chest, driving his skate into the bench. He wraps his arms around himself like a child would an emotional-support stuffy. "Is Light-kun not going to ask if I had a nice night?"

Light sighs. "Did you have a nice New Years Eve, Lawliet?"

"Very much so. Would Light-kun like to know my favourite part?"

"…Sure."

"Lawly," Soichiro bellows. "I need you out."

"Mn, alright," he drones, throwing himself over the boards like a ragdoll. "I suppose it will have to wait."

The team squeaks by, winning 2-1 with Lawliet scoring the game winning goal. Fucking bastard.

Light drags his feet to the guest dressing room, exhaustion fully hitting him. By a mile, the Edmonton Mafia's bar is the nicest in the league. If only he could enjoy it.

"Good game, boys," Soichiro says. "I know it was a rough one for some of you."

"Back to back games over New Years, what a schedule," Matsuda sighs, starfishing on the floor. "I'm never drinking again."

"You held your own against last year's Stanley Cup winners, and I'm proud of you for that," Soichiro continues, stepping over Matsuda's lifeless body. "But the next time you're thinking of celebrating mid-leg, I want you to remember how you feel right now. You know who you are. Now hit the showers."

The guys strip down and lazily trudge from the dressing room to the showers, too tired to feign any excitement over private stalls or piping hot water. Light waits patiently, and once the dressing room has cleared some, he deigns it safe to take off his jersey and pads. Clumsily, he manages one-handed. His other is still out of comission.

Heartbeat thrumming in his fingers, Light unravels his dressing. He's partially worried that it's on too tight. A small gasp escapes him, seeing that the base of his middle and ring finger have bloomed a dark purple.

"You showering?" Ide asks, gaze sharp.

"Yeah, in a minute. Just."

Light stops, hiding the shameful clump behind his back. He's not sure how he's going to manage getting his skates off solo. Mogi's already left.

"…Sorry about screaming at you on the ice."

Ide shrugs, but his expression doesn't soften. "It is what it is."

"I am. Really."

"Yeah," Ide says, turning his back. "I'll keep the water running."

"Thanks—"

The door slams harshly. Too concerned with his own predicament to give a shit how Ide's feeling, Light paws at his skates with his non-dominant hand. But every time he reaches forward, the world seems to tilt on it's axis and he feels like he's going to throw up again.

In five minutes, he hardly makes any progress. In fifteen, nearly everyone has washed up and left the arena.

"Does Light-kun need help?" A cloud of smoke asks, emerging from the locker room. His flip flops slap the carpet.

"No," Light huffs, yanking on the bow of his laces for the ten thousandth time. "I'm just resting."

"He's been resting for some time," Lawliet mutters, skulking through the mist like a spectre in a horror film. Hair sopping wet, with a towel wrapped around his waist. He smells like something familiar, almost woody. Edmonton must have shelled out on their soap.

"What's it to you?"

"They'll turn the lights off soon. He'll be disrobing in the dark."

"I'll manage."

Light yanks again. Lawliet watches. The strings hold firm.

"…If he's sure, I won't ask again if he needs assistance."

"I am sure."

"He sounds very sure."

Light lets out a frustrated noise. "…Mogi just tied these really tight, okay?"

Lawliet hums, wandering forward. One thumb around his towel, the other in his mouth, he drops to one knee.

"Allow me, then."

"I said I can do it myself."

"And he will," Lawliet stokes, enveloping his hand over Light's. The motion is swift. Firm. Hot to the touch. It creates a sensation so tremendous and novel that Light recoils as if he'd pressed his hand to a hot stove.

"Is Light-kun alright?"

Light's heart rattles, rabbit-like. He's never felt so sick in his life.

Lawliet shifts, spreading his knees apart.

"Your, um, towel is slipping."

"Mn? …So it is," Lawliet muses without any real urgency or care. "It's nothing Light-kun hasn't seen before, I'm sure."

"Can you just hurry up?"

"Disrobing, or—"

"Helping, if you're gonna help."

"…Is that what he wants?" Lawliet asks, in a tone almost strange, had the man had any inflection to his voice. Still, something gnaws, smug. A joke that Light isn't in on.

Silence falls on them both, thick like steam as Lawliet works over his laces. Owl-eyed on the dressing room floor. The coil in Light's belly tightens, so hungry he just might faint if he doesn't get something in him.

And then the locker room door swings open, and Ide darts out. In silence, he changes into his civilian clothes, and leaves.

"I think Ide's mad at me."

"Forget him," Lawliet says, and yanks on Light's body. Dragging his foot up and tucking his skate between his legs. Inky black bangs fall in front of his face in piecy, wet clumps. "Consider this a favour."

"A favour?"

"Since Light-kun can do it himself, but is choosing not to."

"…"

Light shifts, uncomfortably.

It's so quiet.

"…These are quite tight," Lawliet finally muses, getting one off.

"Well you're dripping everywhere. That can't be helping."

"Mn, I suppose that's true," Lawliet utters. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs back, but instead of staying put they just flop to the side. The longer pieces, just as damp, stick to his skin.

"You need a haircut."

"I don't so much mind it long."

"What about the NHL Awards next month? All the owners will be there."

"My appearance has never gotten in the way before. Does Light-kun dislike it long?" Lawliet asks, looking up from the floor like some stray puppy begging to be taken home.

Sympathetically, Light studies his eyebags, the barely-there splattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. The sheer size of his pupils. He really is an unfortunate looking person.

"…I don't care what you look like. It's your reputation, not mine."

Lawliet's gaze lingers on Light, too, and then darts to his hideously purple hand. Instinctively, Light tucks it behind his back.

"You don't need to hide it. I'm the one who changed it last night," he utters, so matter of factly that it just can't be a lie. If it isn't, there's a gap in Amane's story. "Does it still hurt?"

"No," Light says, and it doesn't hurt at all in comparison to the electricity surging in the leg tucked between Lawliet's. He wonders if it's possible for a leg to have a heart attack.

"Are you almost done?"

"Almost."

Minutes pass. Lawliet works his knobby fingers over Light's skate, until he's taking hold of his calf with a firm grip, and pulling it off. It makes a dull thud when it hits the ground. Lawliet asks a question, then. Hazy, when it reaches Light's eardrums. Too stubborn to repeat himself, he says something stranger.

"I'm starting to suspect Light-kun has temporary amnesia."

"What makes you say that?"

"He either does not remember, or does not wish to." Lawliet sighs.

"You're not making any sense."

"No," he replies. "I suppose I'm not."

Hot. Tired. Light wipes the dried sweat from his forehead. How many bridges he'd burned the night before, he isn't sure. But as Lawliet drags himself back to his cubby and changes in silence, gathers his things and leaves the dressing room without so much as another word, it's evident that he'd also been singed. Shit.