Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. I just bastardize it. Lyric lines are 'Read My Mind' by The Killers.
Note: The alternative title for this story is 'Matsuda is a drunk lonely bastard and Light was way cooler', selected by my boyfriend. ...We don't always agree.
So yeah it's really been ages since I wrote some Death Note stuff, huh? This is a bit of a...departure from my usual style. This is post-Kira, taskforce-centric angst, which may not sound like much of a difference from my other stuff, but once you start reading it, you'll see what I mean. Mainly, I have taken Matsuda in a completely different direction to normal. So different, that it might be OOC. But if you stick with me, I hope I can show you what I was aiming for. This is much darker than my normal stuff, and I can't remember the last time I wrote something that felt this weird.
This story is completely written (for once) and I will aim to get a new chapter up every day. Chapters are very short, usually around 1000 words or less. There will be seven chapters. This story will span one week, and is set several years after the Kira case closes. For the purposes of characterisation, it does not take account of the last chapter, and fr purposes of plot, it does not take account of the 'three years on' oneshot. Please enjoy, and any and all feedback is, as always, appreciated.
Warnings: Spoilers for the end of the series. Bad language. Sexual content. Homosexuality. Don't like any of those, please don't get yourself worked up by reading.
The Week It Rained
Chapter One - Pursuit
On the corner of main street
Just tryin' to keep it in line
You say you wanna move on and
You say I'm falling behind
The streets are black and it's raining. Sheets and sheets of water are pouring down, shattering against the pavement, against the tarmac, and the city is silent but for this, the pitter-patter, the drumming, the noise of rain.
Then there are footsteps. They splash in the layer of water coating the world, loud and sudden and silence-shattering, increasingly in volume as they come closer. They fade off. The runner had passed. The streets are back to the way they were before, the only ripples those of falling rain meeting fallen rain.
More footsteps. Louder than before. More people, three of them. One is bigger than the others by far, his splashes are heavier, deeper, and his paces are longer; he gets there first. He draws to a halt. More splashes as those with him catch up. They stop short seeing his static figure.
The splashing sounds stop as all three are still. The two latecomers watch the first figure, waiting for some reason, some explanation, for the halt.
"Gone," says the first man, the big man.
More silence. More rain. Quiet cursing.
"We almost –"
"Almost isn't good enough."
Two figures turn to look at the third. Then, they meet each other's eyes. This didn't used to be him, this negativity, this harshness, this exacting idea of what is needed. He is the only one without some kind of hood, without some kind of jacket. His hair is plastered to his head. His face has the look of a boy forced to grow up before his time.
But the man who might have answered to that name has already gone, running, in the direction of the first set of footsteps. "We'll find him!"
Things have changed.
The two left standing, the big man and the thin man, look at each other. Both of them know what this is about. Neither of them want to be the one to say it.
"He's going to kill himself if he carries on this way," says the thin one, the one with deep set eyes and a heavy brow. For a moment they have forgotten the man they are chasing, forgotten that the guns and badges in their pockets mean their first duty is to catch him, and not help their friend.
The big man is very still and doesn't say anything. Then, slowly, lifting one leg first (soaked to the knee with water, despite the fact that his pants were cut not to drag on the ground, cut not to sop up the rain this way) and then the other, he begins his pursuit. Even he, though, is not sure which of the two running men his goal is tied to.
The third man watches him go. There is no point to this. The escaped man they had been chasing was nothing. A possible source of information on a serial killings case, and a shaky one at that. He was not to be trusted. He wanted to cut a deal. He would say whatever made the cops look favourably on his statements. Losing track of him wouldn't set them back. Keeping him would have only cost them time.
Matsuda didn't see it that way. Matsuda didn't see the world in those kind of terms and he never had.
This, though, now, was different. It was worse.
This was because of Light.
The thin man sighs. He is alone in the middle of the street, on a moonless night, in the relentless rain. His comrades have gone. Really, he has no choice but to follow.
His limbs are burning. He takes one step, then another, starts to gather speed. All he wants to do is collapse in some dry place and be away from this.
Nothing has been the same since Yellowbox.
He gives chase. If nothing else, he knows he has at least one duty here –
- To get Matsuda home safe.