Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The energy in the office has been nothing short of erratic and suffocating lately. Since the US president bowed to Kira's rule, the task force has been a flurry of near constant activity. In the midst of soothing the masses and chasing fruitless leads for Kira, the only burden they could finally relinquish was Mello—without the notebook, he isn't worth the concern, and they can't afford to waste effort on anything beyond Kira’s capture.

But even with that small relief, Kira’s growing reign and their exhaustive, useless efforts weigh heavy on the force. The tension is palpable, and it puts Matsuda's nerves on edge—makes his stomach coil with restless anxiety.

He stares at his broken ceiling fan, watching as it twirls uselessly in the darkness, incapable of even lightly stirring the air below it. It creaks with every slow cycle around and around, loud in the otherwise silent room.

He tries counting each spin to lull himself to sleep, but now that he finally has these precious few hours to rest, he's antsy. His nerves are a constant thrum in the back of his skull, a buzz he can't escape, no matter how many times he counts and recounts the creaking cycles of the fan.

His first thought: alcohol. A nice beer would calm him down, would drown the anxiety and stress for long enough that he could finally sleep.

His second thought: he has none. He's drunk himself dry and hasn't had the time to get more.

He groans. No alcohol, no working fan, no sleep, no nothing. He sits up in defeat.

Alone with no sleep and nothing to numb his thoughts, they drift—inevitably—to Light.

Light and his mousey brown hair; Light and his intelligent eyes, his knowing little smiles. The perceptive tilt of his head when he notices something beyond what any average person could, his full lashes that fan over his smooth cheekbones.

How could he not think of him? He just can't help himself, not after that night.

It still stuns him how quickly it all happened. How quickly admiration turned into want. Years of isolation have left him raw, and he’s always been a romantic at heart—but this? Its reckless, out of control.

And surreal, still, that Light was the one who crossed that line first. That Light saw something he desired in Matsuda, and decided to indulge.

If you had told him six years ago, he would have called you mad and perverted.

The memory of that night—of Light's mouth, his tight heat, his burning eyes—curls low in his stomach, desire blooming before he can stop it.

God, he shouldn’t want this.

Not now, not with the world collapsing outside these walls.

But the thought only sharpens the craving, want coiling tighter and tighter until hes dizzy with it.

He chews his lower lip and presses a palm to the growing heat in his boxers. It aches with want, with painful need. His fingers twitch and he cant bring himself to pull away. He gives in, taking himself in hand with quick, desperate strokes.

Its downright pathetic how fast he finishes, Light's name tumbling from his mouth in a quiet plea, ropes of white sticking to his chest and stomach.

When the aftershocks finally fade, so does the heat. The sheets are cold. The room is dark. And the absence of Light is suddenly very loud.

He cleans up the mess mechanically and sinks beneath the covers, chest tightening. He isn't sure if its because of want or guilt. Maybe its both.

He sinks into an uneasy sleep, mind clinging to the idea of Light's warmth.

Matsuda is later than usual to work the next morning. For the past week or two, he’s made a point of arriving early—coffee brewed, one cup set aside just for Light. But today, he overslept.

He's not late, but when he arrives and everyone is already there, he feels a little deflated—dissapointed that he messed up one of the only ways he's ever helpful. He has to remind himself to stop looking like a kicked dog as he opens the door to the office.

Aizawa and Ide sit together on the couch, laptops on the coffee table, while Mogi sits beside Light in a swivel chair, looking over his shoulder.

Light is, predictably, already working. He taps away at the keyboard, chatting quietly back and forth with Mogi. Matsuda glances at his side to confirm—Light has no coffee.

He instantly perks up at the opportunity, grateful that none of the others poured him a cup, as silly as he feels for even thinking that.

He nods to Ide and Aizawa in greeting as he sets his things down and heads to the break room.

His stomach is twisted, for some reason, as he brews the coffee for himself and Light. His fingers even shake a little as he pours the hot brew into the cups, and he curses as a splash of it burns his hand.

It seems that last night only made things worse for him—every image clearer, every want sharper. Shame climbs hot up his neck at the timing of it all. Wanting this now, of all times.

As he makes his way back to the office, he can't help but feel a bit… foolish. How transparent is he being? Can they all tell?

He carries both cups back carefully, trying to look normal. His heart still jumps when he sees Light. No one looks twice at him, but he feels exposed anyway, certain they all must see it on his face.

It’s just a nice gesture, he reminds himself. That’s all.

Yet, when he reaches Light’s desk, hope flickers—hope that Light will look up, meet his eyes, and feel the same spark.

Light doesn’t. He only smiles in thanks and turns back to the screen.

Matsuda decides to make it quick, seeing as Light is clearly preoccupied, and so he sets down the coffee and makes to move away, trying to stifle the (unnecessary) ache of disappointment in his stomach.

Then, the brush of Light's knee against his own stops him, and he looks to see that Light has turned to face him with his head tilted up. Matsuda's breath falters against his will, digging his fingernails into his palm.

“Good morning, Matsuda-san,” he greets, voice just low enough that it urges Matsuda to lean a little closer to hear, the heady scent of Light's cologne filling the space between them. The computer screen casts a blue glow along his profile, softening his features and illuminating his dark irises—he looks borderline angelic.

Matsuda glances down to Light's lips and then back up to his shining eyes, warmth tingling the tips of his ears. How could someone be so captivating without even trying?

“Matsuda-san?” Light repeats, cocking his head. Matsuda blinks at the interruption of his thoughts, feeling as if he had broadcasted every single thing in his mind out loud. He grimaces.

“Oh- uh, sorry. Good morning, Light-kun,” he manages. He straightens and readjusts his watch, praying that his gawking wasn't too obvious.

Light's brows draw together in concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks, a small frown on his face.

Matsuda nods quickly, wanting to get the interaction over with so he can sink into the floor. He's so obvious.

God, I need to get a grip.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just… spaced out a little,” he answers, smiling in reassurance. Light hums, his knees brushing Matsuda's once again as he turns back to the computer, releasing Matsuda from the oppressive weight of his gaze. Matsuda is equal parts relieved and deflated at the loss.

“Okay then. Thank you for the coffee,” he says, already typing again, focused back on the computer. A small frown threatens to tug at Matsuda's lips.

He's halfway to the couch when Light adds, “You've been very helpful lately. You're doing good, Matsuda-san.” He doesn't even look at him as he says it, not even a glance.

Nonetheless, satisfaction rushes from the tips of Matsuda's toes to the top of head, a shiver running down his spine. He has to collect himself momentarily before replying, “Ah, thanks, Light-kun! It's nothing, really.”

Absorbed as Light is in work recently, this is only the second time Light has directly recognized him since the hookup, and Matsuda had almost forgotten the rush he gets from it.

The first time had him shuddering in the bathroom as he composed himself, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs to resist unprofessional conduct. He's only thankful he has more tact this time.

Light doesn't even seem to hear his response, but that's okay—he still acknowledged him. He still praised him and approved of his effort. That's plenty for Matsuda.

Matsuda settles down, a pleased little grin on his face, and resigns himself to working for hours on end. But it feels less daunting now, less hopeless. Even something as impossible as the Kira case feels possible when Light is there.

Light is ecstatic at the recent turn of events. Mello's escape—initially a minor setback—has proven to be quite beneficial.

The chaos in its wake essentially forced the US government to accept Kira's authority. He's still an issue, of course, but one that he can easily crush under his heel when the time arises.

For now, he allows himself to revel in his victory. The public is looking to Kira for safety, for order—even the government cannot deny his power any longer. It's only a matter of time before he exerts total control and rebuilds the world from the ruins it destroyed itself into.

Though, after a few days of feeding partial intel to the task force, it's gotten a bit dull. Playing the part of the exhausted young investigator is also wearing thin—not that he has to fake much, considering he’s been essentially living at the office to maintain the illusion.

So, to soothe this growing restlessness, he's been focusing some of his attention on Matsuda, stringing him along in an entertaining, one sided game. It’s amusing to watch him struggle under the push-pull of professionalism, desire, and insecurity. Light nudges him in all the right places to make each of those cracks widen.

He gives Matsuda just enough attention so that he doesn't lose hope, but shoulders him out when he gets too eager. He even lays on the stressed act a bit thick, just so Matsuda will scramble to put more weight on his shoulders.

And Matsuda reacts exactly as expected—eyes wandering, fingers twitching, lips bitten raw. Pathetically easy to read.

It's a bit cruel for such an earnest thing like Matsuda, but really, Light mostly means no harm. If anything, the teasing makes the small moments of approval feel sweeter to Matsuda. And the proof is in every flustered reaction: like this morning, when a simple “you’re doing good” had him positively beaming; or last week, when Light praised something as mundane as his punctuality and Matsuda physically shuddered before fleeing to the bathroom.

The urge to stretch him thin has only sharpened since Matsuda’s quiet, dangerous question to the task force. To his surprise, Matsuda risked the scorn of his colleagues to ask—eyes down, fingers fidgeting with his watch—whether Kira is the evil they claim he is. It was a small, beautiful fracture in his certainty.

He doubts Matsuda could be easily swayed—he’s dutiful, steady, absurdly principled even when he agrees with Kira’s ideology. But sometimes, all you need is a foot in the door, and Matsuda's hesitance is all but an invitation. His earnest loyalty would be much better suited for serving under Kira's heel than it is for serving the task force, in Light's opinion.

And now, with that crack in Matsuda’s morality exposed, Light feels something far more potent than simple amusement. Anticipation. Matsuda is closer than ever—ripe for influence, for guidance, for claiming—and Light can almost taste the moment he finally gives in.

Which is why he has to repress a satisfied smirk as the man in question suddenly stands from the couch, posture stiff as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and makes to leave, his focus trained on the door to the office.

For the past half an hour after lunch, Light has been poised next to Matsuda on the couch, deliberately situated just close enough that their thighs almost touch. While Matsuda was frozen still, Light would occasionally shift, causing them to briefly brush against one another.

Every little “accidental” brush of their legs made Matsuda's muscles jump, and his eyes would flicker back to the top of his screen as if he needed to re-read whatever he was looking at over and over again, huffing quietly. Light had to repress a snicker—too easy.

Now, it seems like he's had enough of Light's subtle goading, and has decided to take a quick break from work. Not that he was being productive anyways, what with his constant wandering gaze and frustrated huffs.

Light watches him leave. He recognizes the rigid set of his shoulders—the look Matsuda gets when he’s struggling to contain himself. The presented opportunity is perfect. Finally, he's running off to regain his composure, attempting to rebuild a fragile veneer that Light will easily shatter with a single tap. Desire simmers like embers in his chest.

He's denied himself long enough.

Light waits a minute before he gets up to follow him. Ide, Aizawa, and Mogi are all too busy to pay much attention, so Light is able to slip away unnoticed.

His blood is already rushing with anticipation. Matsuda is exactly where Light needs him to be—confused, longing—and Light intends to put it to good use. He blows out a steadying breath.

He passes the break room, and when he sees Matsuda is absent, he turns down the hall to where the bathrooms are. He smiles at the conveniently isolated location.

He readjusts his suddenly too-tight tie as he leans on the wall outside the men's room, looking the part of casual when he is anything but. His stomach is coiled tight, pulse fluttering like a trapped butterfly as he taps his toe on the floor impatiently.

He straightens when the bathroom door hinge creaks. Matsuda steps out, nearly running into Light, his eyes widening in surprise. Pink dusts the crests of his cheekbones at the sudden proximity, chest stuttering with faltered breath.

“Light—?”

He's interrupted as Light grabs his collar and yanks him forward, colliding chest to chest. He tangles his hair with his other hand, angling Matsuda's head properly as he crushes their lips together.

His pulse thumps in his ears, a rush of newfound desperation he didn't expect rendering him breathless. The feeling of Matsuda's firm body against his, shuddering, is reigniting his arousal like oil on a fire—why and how did he hold out so long?

Light swallows Matsuda's gasp, tightening his hold as he stumbles from shock. He nips at his unresponsive lips, encouraging them to open, and he sighs in satisfaction when Matsuda finally answers with an eager tongue.

He surges forward, fingers curling at Light's nape as he keenly attempts to push him into the wall.

Light grunts in disapproval and tugs sharply at Matsuda’s hair. He isn’t in the mood to tolerate over-eagerness like he did the first time. Matsuda goes still immediately, and Light uses the pause to shove him back against the door, fingers closing around his jaw.

“S-sorry,” Matsuda gasps, clinging even harder, eyes wide and frantic as if afraid Light might simply walk away.

Light hums, the sound neither forgiving nor angry, and he tilts his head upward with firm, unhurried pressure. Matsuda accepts it without a hint of resistance.

Light leans in and drags his teeth lightly along the newly exposed line of Matsuda’s throat, lingering over the rapid pulse there. Matsuda shakes like something starved, hands trembling with every slow nip that traces up to his ear.

“Get down on your knees,” Light murmurs, voice low and velvet against his skin.

The sound that breaks out of Matsuda’s chest is small and choked. His throat bobs around a hard swallow as he sinks down almost instantly, using Light’s shoulders for balance.

Watching the older man—who should, in every practical sense, outmatch him—fold that easily is deeply satisfying. It stirs something sharp and possessive in Light, the urge to press further, to see if Matsuda would ask how high? the moment he told him to jump.

Matsuda looks up at him as he settles, breath quick and uneven. Light rests a hand in his hair, guiding him down, keeping their gazes locked.

Matsuda sits back on his heels, hands resting obediently on his thighs, the occasional twitch betraying his desire. All of his earlier enthusiasm coils now in the rigid line of his shoulders, in the way he forces himself to be still, waiting—aching—for Light’s instruction.

His potential is so obvious when he's like this that it almost hurts to look at.

It lies in the meek curve of his posture, in the earnest gleam in his eyes, in the way his fingers quiver against his slacks but never dare to move without permission.

It tempts Light more than it should.

It seems almost too easy to risk everything for a pretty, obedient face. He already has those—in Takada, Mikami, Misa. They contort themselves for Kira because they know he is Kira.

But Matsuda is different.

His loyalty isn’t a performance. His goodness isn’t curated. He isn’t trying to impress a god—he’s simply, stupidly earnest. Principled. Soft-hearted. Devoted not to Kira but to Light, the man before him.

His sincerity makes him irresistible, makes Light ache to crush that moral stubbornness and reshape it into something sharper, something useful.

Something solely his.

He sighs softly, brushing his thumb across Matsuda’s lower lip. The skin is flushed, slightly wet, parted in anticipation.

“Open,” Light instructs, nudging his lips apart with a thumb. Matsuda obeys with a sharp, shaky inhale, eyes flicking up in desperate focus.

Light pats his cheek in approval and reaches for his belt with brisk efficiency.

He doesn’t have time to drag this out.

Matsuda doesn't move an inch or utter a sound as Light frees his erection. His stiff posture shakes ever so slightly, a leaf in a light breeze, knuckles white against his tightened slacks. His short breath ghosts the tip of his pulsing cock.

Unceremoniously, Light guides it to Matsuda's open mouth, stifling his groan with a bite to his tongue. He takes it in inch by inch, brows furrowed in concentration, visibly trying to relax. The delicious heat burns Light's fuse short—he can't restrain his hips, kicking forward in impatient, short thrusts.

Matsuda squeezes his eyes shut, choking, hands leaving his knees to grip at Light's thighs in an evident panic. But Light swats them away, pushing him back into the wall with a gentle thump.

He falters and ceases his writhing, looking up at Light with glassy, wide eyes, nostrils flared wide in a desperate attempt to catch breath. Yet his hands return to his knees, properly admonished.

Light barely has the wherewithal to feel pleased with such obedience as he hits the back of his throat. He hisses through his teeth, an incoherent whirl of finally and fuck and yes flooding his mind.

Goosebumps raise along the backs of his arms, pleasure blurring his vision into a dizzy haze. He thrusts again and again into that tight, wet heat, drool trickling from the sides of Matsuda's slick lips, thick waves of arousal pulsing onto his insistent tongue.

He leans on the wall to stay upright as his knees give, his breath stuttering into ragged, uneven pulls. It feels so good, so good that it makes his head spin.

A glance down to his wrist—his watch, ticking. The warm, mindless fuzz recedes like sludge, slow and cloying, and he's reminded to keep this quick.

Unfortunate.

Then, Matsuda flicks his tongue just so, diverting Light's focus right back to the sensation of his mouth. His weight had shifted forward the second he noticed Light's momentary lapse of attention, doubling his efforts to keep him satisfied.

Gleaming droplets of sweat disappear down his disheveled collar, evidence of his labor. His desperation really does it for Light, makes his cock twitch in his tight throat at every little unintentional reveal of Matsuda's insecurity.

Against the protests of his throbbing arousal, he grips the back of his skull and pries him off, hissing, quickly replacing the heat with his own hand to stroke himself fast and rough.

Matsuda sputters and coughs, heaving with his first heavy gulps of oxygen in minutes. But his mouth remains open and waiting, his watery eyes dazed.

“Good, Matsuda, keep your mouth—keep it open,” he manages to say between choked off groans, teetering close to the edge.

He keeps the head of his cock pressed firmly on his tongue as he pumps, his other hand tightened in a bruising grip at the nape of Matsuda's neck. Pre-come smears across his swollen lips and leaks down his chin, making for a filthy sight. Light bites his tongue, hard, hips stuttering in frantic little jumps as heat rushes along the arch of his spine.

He squeezes his eyes shut, tightly wound, winding impossibly tighter. He sucks in a short breath, taking in Matsuda's debauched appearance: flushed cheeks and blissed-out eyes, mouth hanging open with drool trickling down his chin as his tongue flexes at every pump. Light's fingernails press into his scalp. He's so fucking close, legs shaking with the effort to stay upright.

Matsuda is so pretty and docile like this, looking up at Light with a filthy open mouth, on his knees. It's ridiculously hot—something he never imagined Matsuda could be.

“Stay just—hah, just like that.” His voice thins, breathless and strained. His strokes grow harsher, messier, and he has to bite his lip to prevent strangled little sounds from tumbling out.

A small flicker of Matsuda's tongue, right across the slit—

And then hes tightening his grip in Matsuda's soft hair and fucking into his throat again, holding him in place as he shoots his load into that tight, contracting heat with aborted little thrusts.

White obscures the corners of his vision, gravity lifting for a precious few moments in a weightless bliss.

His knees wobble and he sags, forehead to the cool wall.

Tick, tick, tick.

Clarity, acute and refreshing, slowly eases through the dense fog in his skull—he glances downward, first at his ticking watch, and then at Matsuda as the man wipes his mouth with his sleeve. He swallowed every drop.

Good.

A small, devilish smile quirks at his lips. He languidly eyes him down to the distinct outline of his erection, straining and twitching against the fabric of his slacks, seeking some kind of friction. But still, he denies himself, his hands dutifully settled on his knees, even as they flex impatiently, his thighs visibly tensing against the urge to thrust.

He peers up pleadingly at Light, shivering against the wall, catching his breath with each labored heave of his chest.

For a long moment, he considers leaving him there. It's quite the amusing idea.

Matsuda, left scrambling, aroused and frantically confused—did I do something wrong? Did I do bad? Maybe he would even go as far as jerking himself off the second Light turns out of sight, fingers fumbling with the zipper on his pants, taking his cock in his hand and stroking until he's muffling his sounds in his own sleeve, writhing alone on the floor.

The idea is undeniably appealing.

Besides, he's sure Matsuda would easily fold again if Light so pleased, even if he left him high and dry now. It's tempting, yet another idea suddenly strikes him that seems far more enticing.

Light supposes he can spare a good three minutes before he needs to leave. Anyway, he did exactly what Light wanted of him, so he should be rewarded, right?

Light zips up and straightens, fixing up his collar and combing his hair back into place. Then, he leans back and takes pity on the poor man, the polished toe of his shoe lazily sliding between his thighs.

Matsuda's muscles jerk. He draws a sharp breath between his teeth, involuntarily rolling his hips forward to meet the pressure of his shoe, mouth slightly agape in surprise. Light smirks, caressing the bulge up and down along the seam.

“You have three minutes,” he informs, nonchalant, watching the seconds tick by on his watch.

Tick, tick.

Matsuda lets out a shaky little sound, whiny and wanton, as his shoe crests the tip of his cock, pressing harder, demanding.

“Ah, what? What do you—what do you mean?” He blurts, his cheeks flushing darker. He looks away timidly, as if he's not actively gyrating against his shoe, humping it like a dog with little gasps of pleasure he can't contain. Light licks his teeth.

“Two minutes and thirty seconds,” he says, smiling. He slowly comes to a pause, leaving his shoe at a rest on the bulging fabric.

Matsuda hesitates with a muffled whine as his sluggish, arousal addled mind catches up to the sudden loss of stroking.

He glances up at Light with wide, blown pupils, brows pulled together in a truly dejected expression. It makes Light's spent cock twitch.

He swallows thickly when Light gives him no response to his questioning look, slowly burning to the tips of his ears as he finally picks back up where Light stopped. His pace quickens to a disjointed, fervent rhythm.

Utterly shameless.

Light can’t deny it’s a good show. Matsuda grinds against his shoe like an animal in heat—brows knitted, breath trembling, bottom lip chewed raw between his teeth.

Light watches him with the same detachment he might give a passing train: half-lidded eyes, attention split lazily between Matsuda and the watch on his wrist.

Meanwhile Matsuda trembles and ruts like a dog in heat, desperate to finish in time.

“One minute and forty-five seconds.”

Light examines his nail beds as if he’s bored, knowing exactly what the sharpness in his tone will do to Matsuda. He feels the stutter in Matsuda’s rhythm the instant it lands.

Matsuda freezes, breath catching.

Light finally looks down at him, eyebrow raised in mild amusement. For a moment he wonders if he’s crushed the fragile bit of confidence Matsuda managed to scrape together.

But then Matsuda obediently spreads his legs wider and crawls closer, offering himself up with a trembling eagerness that borders on pathetic.

Good, Light thinks. He’s learning.

Matsuda leans his weight onto Light's shin and holds his calf, pressing it into his erection as he lolls his head carelessly onto Light's thigh. Light, thoroughly amused, even strokes his hair in encouragement as Matsuda begins to grind against his leg in earnest. His cock is a hot pressure on his shin, throbbing and insistent.

“Come on, Matsu. You only have a minute left,” he mocks, a twisted smile on his face, and yet Matsuda still shivers with pleasure at the praise. How cute.

Matsuda pants into Light’s slacks, hot breath soaking through the fabric as sweat slips down his cheek. His hips grind in short, broken thrusts now, the kind that comes from instinct rather than thought. His shoulders strain tight, every needy sound swallowed into Light’s pant leg.

Light idly twirls a stray curl in his finger, humming.

“Thirty seconds,” he warns, dark satisfaction swirling in his chest with every panicked, jerking motion—how could a chaste blowjob throw someone into such a fit?

He really is pathetic. Beautifully, hopelessly pathetic.

And Light delights in it—delights in feeding him scraps of attention, watching him crumble for them, so genuine in his desperate effort to gain his attention.

Light decides, again, that Matsuda would be far better suited for Kira than for the task force. With Kira, Matsuda wouldn’t have to strain for scraps of acknowledgement or invent ways to be useful. He would only have to be obedient, principled—and willing.

Matsuda goes rigid at the ten second mark, seizing.

“Oh,” he hiccups, a pitiful mewl that manages to send a flicker of residual heat down Light's spine.

Light angles his head upward with the tip of his finger under his chin so he can watch, studying his agape mouth and rolled eyes that look stark white against his flushed cheeks. His whole body tenses, then shakes, hips kicking weakly where they’re pressed against Light.

“Thats it,” he murmurs, giving his head a conciliatory pat as he rides out the last shivers of his orgasm.

He gives him only a heartbeat to go slack before he pulls away, ignoring the faint, slurred protest that escapes him.

Time’s up.

“Clean yourself up before you come back,” he suggests, clearing his throat as he turns on his heel. He doesn't spare Matsuda a glance.

He's glad he stayed in the end. Matsuda's eager desire to please is quite the distracting balm on his tension.

As he turns the corner, Light comes to the conclusion that swaying Matsuda in his favor wouldn't pose much of a risk after all.

Matsuda leans on the bathroom sink, combing through his mussed hair with his fingers before straightening his collar. His mind buzzes in time with the flickering fluorescents. His reflection looks strange—flushed, dazed, not quite his own. He feels off-kilter, a piece of driftwood caught in a rogue wave, surging between scorching heat and sudden cold.

It’s both exhilarating and nauseating, being caught in the crosshairs of Light’s eye. Never quite grasping what Light sees in him, or what he wants. But he doesn’t mind; surrender feels almost natural when Light’s the one looking down at him. He’s glad he could offer relief, even if he feels like he’s stumbling through the dark, an insect reaching past the limits of its own antennae.

He finishes up quickly, eager to escape the relentless buzzing.

When he returns to the office, Light is sitting back at the desk, faced away from him. Not a hair strays out of place, not a single crease in his shirt.

Flawless.

It leaves Matsuda wondering if what just happened between them was nothing more than an embarrassing daydream.

Matsuda shuffles to his spot on the couch and crumples into it, suddenly exhausted. The half open laptop on the coffee table taunts him; the work day goes on.

“You can't escape it. Its enough to make someone crazy.” Matsuda perks up a little at the sound of conversation at the other side of the table, a welcome distraction.

“It's even worse now that Kira's public support has risen so much. It's absolutely ridiculous the things these people are posting,” Aizawa complains.

“I just don't even go online more than necessary anymore. During a crisis like this, people get antsy and say stupid things. It's nothing new,” Ide replies, looking over Aizawa's shoulder as he scrolls through—presumably—endless posts about Kira.

Without thinking, “I guess it makes sense, though.”

Aizawa and Ide look up at his interruption, Mogi glancing in his direction as well. Light, on the other hand, doesn't even seem to hear.

“What makes sense?” Aizawa asks, quirking a skeptical brow.

“I mean—it just, it makes sense that public approval is going up,” Matsuda barrels on, looking thoughtful, not catching Aizawa's tone, “People are scared, so they're looking for protection and finding that in Kira.”

He looks back up to see them staring at him, unamused. He shrinks a little.

Ide crosses his arms. “People feel ‘safe’ because they’re too afraid to think for themselves. They're just as unimportant to Kira as every criminal he kills. We've been over this.”

Mogi, quieter but firm, adds, “No need to play Kira's PR team for us, Matsuda.”

His words sting embarrassingly. Matsuda opens his mouth, then closes it again, his face hot.

Across the room, Light’s typing slows for just a moment. He doesn’t say anything, but his head tilts slightly, and his eyes flick toward Matsuda before returning to the screen.

It’s barely a second—nothing anyone else would notice—but it’s enough. Matsuda feels a rush of reassurance he can’t explain, the kind that makes the shame a little easier to swallow.

He can't help but think that maybe Light appreciates Matsuda's unfiltered thoughts, maybe even agrees with him. He settles on that thought as the other men wave him off, and he resigns himself to working again.

Matsuda flicks his lighter and inhales. A steady stream of smoke fills his lungs, burning the back of his throat and sending a pleasant thrum to his head. It curls from his lips as he exhales with a sigh. It’s a habit he’s picked up again recently, one he thought he’d kicked back in college.

Light hasn’t so much as looked his way these past few days—no acknowledgment, no quiet word in passing. The distance gnaws at him more than he wants to admit, and it feels easy to fall back on an old vice to soothe the ache.

He tells himself it’s better this way, that the silence means nothing. Light is busy. The case needs attention. But the thought of being forgotten sits heavy in his chest.

He leans against the curb, staring up at the fog-obscured night sky. Neon signs hum overhead, and streetlights ripple across the damp asphalt. Another drag, another brief illusion of calm. It’s comforting. It reminds him of before.

“Matsuda.”

He startles at the voice, surprised when he turns to see Light’s silhouette approaching. He exhales the smoke toward the street, away from him, as Light stops beside him. He tries to quell the anticipation that must be showing on his face.

“I didn’t take you for a smoker,” Light observes, eyes flicking to the cigarette with a faint disdain that Matsuda doesn’t miss.

“I kicked the habit a long time ago,” Matsuda says with a shrug.

“Clearly not.”

The silence that follows is thick and stifling, heavy with smoke. Matsuda sucks his teeth and wonders if he should put it out, feeling like a kid being scolded. Light’s gaze stays on him, steady, sharp.

“Put it out,” he says finally.

Matsuda doesn’t hesitate. His body moves before his mind catches up, snuffing the ember into the concrete. Light watches, then hums softly and steps off the curb, standing in front of him now. Close enough to make him look up.

A faint, satisfied smile curves Light’s lips. The sight sends a rush through Matsuda’s chest stronger than any nicotine hit. His breath catches when Light reaches down, fingers brushing his chin, thumb sweeping across his lower lip.

Light leans closer, heat radiating between them. The kiss is barely a ghost of contact, soft and fleeting, gone before it even registers. Cool air rushes back in its place.

“I don’t like the taste of smoke. No more of it—understand?”

His hair catches the neon glow, eyes glinting like glass. Somewhere, sirens wail in the distance. Matsuda hardly hears it over the blood rushing to his ears.

“I understand, Light. Sorry,” Matsuda murmurs, eyes dropping to the crushed cigarette, throat dry.

That strange weight settles in his chest again—a mixture of embarrassment and exhilaration. Light’s gaze burns through him, heavy with scrutiny, absolute and inescapable. He could burn to ash like this.

“Walk with me,” Light says at last, tone casual as he steps forward and grinds the dead cigarette under his heel.

“Okay.”

The single word tumbles out, small. Blush tingles at the base of his neck as he stares at the glossy toe of his shoe.

Light turns, motioning for him to follow, and so he does.

They walk in silence, the sound of their shoes sharp against the wet pavement. He focuses on the rhythm of their footsteps, the way they fall in sync, drawn in the direction of the metro.

“You said earlier that people feel safer under Kira,” Light says suddenly, his voice low. “Do you?”

The question takes him off guard. He stiffens. Matsuda opens his mouth, but no answer feels safe to give. He gives a nervous glance sideways.

But Light’s expression isn’t accusatory, like he half expected. It’s pensive—curious. As if Matsuda’s thoughts are worth hearing, worth considering.

His shoulders relax a fraction. Light isn't angry. He was the only one that didn't admonish and dismiss his words, after all. Matsuda swallows.

“I wouldn't say—I can't say I feel safe, exactly. It's more like, I feel… resigned.”

They stop a short distance away from the others waiting for the train. Light tilts his head.

“Resigned?” He repeats.

Matsuda's chest tightens. It always does when he thinks about this—about his slow, pathetic loss of resolve. He wishes he had a drink right now.

Matsuda clenches his teeth. He can't lie to Light, even if its shameful.

“I would give anything to this case,” he begins quietly, “Hell, I already have. Ive given it years and years of my life.”

The weight of all that time—of everything lost—hovers above his head like a storm cloud, suffocating. He suppresses a shudder.

Light nods once, encouraging.

“But sometimes,” Matsuda goes on, voice thinning, “I wonder if, if maybe it's all for nothing. Like we're fighting the inevitable.”

His gaze drops. His chest knots tight, wrung dry. He hates putting it to words, hates the way it makes it all real. Hates sharing it to Light, who has never complained once during this investigation.

Then, a warm hand on his shoulder—calm, patient—and he exhales, as if the touch gives him permission to breathe again.

“You shouldn't feel ashamed for being tired.” Fingertips ghost along his jaw, almost teasing, and Matsuda can't help but lean into the touch. A rush of gratitude renders him borderline dizzy—he faintly wonders how Light can be so kind.

“Maybe it's not about fighting the inevitable,” Light continues, his hand dropping to his side once again. Cold stings Matsuda's cheeks in its absence.

“Maybe it's about accepting the world as it is.” He pins Matsuda with a stare that freezes him in place.

“My real question is: if it is inevitable, would that be so wrong?”

Would it be so wrong? Matsuda blinks. The words ring in his ears.

What is it that Light wants him to say? Wouldn't agreeing be nothing short of betrayal? Does Light believe that?

Matsuda swallows. His mouth tastes like iron.

He wants to say no. He wants to say yes. Mostly, he wants to say whatever will keep Light looking at him like this.

“Light.”

He says it like a plea. Not an answer, just a name. The only one that comes to him.

Light leans in slightly and the world has narrowed to nothing but the space between them.

“Yes?”

His voice matches the softness of Matsuda's tone, but not the uncertainty. Light sounds so sure, like he knows the answer to the question Matsuda is asking. He always sounds like that.

The weight drops and Matsuda has to step back. Its too much. His stomach twists, breath punched out of him.

He’s breathing too fast and too shallow and he hates that he can’t stop.

“Goodnight Matsuda.”

The wind almost steals the words. Matsuda hears them anyway as he turns tail and flees, almost tripping in his haste to get away.

The next morning, Matsuda feels… off. Disconnected, like he woke up a few steps behind his own life. The insomnia's catching up again, pressing dull behind his eyes, but it's more than that this time.

He’d tossed half the night, stomach twisting each time his mind drifted back. Light’s voice, sharp and quiet. That look.

It shouldn’t bother him this much. Light says strange extremes sometimes—dialectics and hypotheticals and things Matsuda barely pretends to understand. It's not like Light was accusing him of anything. Of course he hadn’t.

…Right?

Matsuda rubs his face, suddenly unsure. Something in Light’s tone keeps echoing, unsettling, like an answer he doesn’t want to know is looming over him.

He turns the corner and pauses when he sees Light and Ide talking as they wait for the elevator. They're standing close together, voices low. Light chuckles at something Ide says, the sound soft and lovely.

His chest constricts imperceptibly, curling into something small and poisonous as Ide's hand brushes Light's shoulder. It's brief, friendly—nothing to even blink at—yet he's bothered all the same.

Light looks relaxed, at ease. Since when has he laughed like that? What did Ide say that was so funny? Did they really need to stand so close?

They both quiet when he approaches, offering polite nods in greeting. He forces a small smile in return, fingers worrying at the cuffs of his sleeve. He feels a little guilty for interrupting… but mostly relieved that they've stepped a respectable distance apart now.

“Good morning, guys. How are you?” He says, hoping he sounds and looks more put-together than he feels. Especially since Light's eyes are on him now, as unreadable as always. He wonders what he sees.

“I'm good, thank you,” Ide says, yawning as he steps into the elevator.

“I'm doing well, Matsuda-san. And you?” Light replies, following behind.

Matsuda straightens his collar, smile softening into something more genuine. “I'm pretty good.”

He casually situates himself between Light and Ide in the elevator. Well, at least he tried to be casual, but judging by Ide's curious glance in his direction it may not have been. He winces inwardly.

He tries to think of something interesting to talk about, but draws a blank, and so they all sit in silence. He shifts from foot to foot.

The hum of the elevator fills the space. He stares at the floor numbers, counting each one like it might save him from saying something stupid. The air feels heavy; Light’s cologne lingers in it. He wonders if Ide notices how close he and Light are standing now. He wonders if Light does.

The elevator dings.

As Ide walks ahead, Light lags just a second behind, close enough that Matsuda can feel his breath near his ear.

“Try not to overthink everything, Matsuda-san,” he murmurs, “You’ll only tire yourself out.”

And then he’s gone, walking into the office as if he never said a word.

Matsuda heats up in embarrassment at the comment, rolling his lips together as he catches up with them.

Work is dull for the rest of the morning. He mechanically goes through the motions, file by file, dead lead after dead lead, only chipping in on conversation with the others when expected of him. He catches himself nodding off more than once, vision spacing as he reads the same paper from the top for the umpteenth time. Time drifts by in a fog of stale office air, humming AC, and aimless pen tapping that resounds in his skull with each click.

When he glances at his watch and sees that it's noon, he's surprised. He's usually eating lunch around this time, but he hardly feels hungry.

He joins Ide, Mogi, and Aizawa in the breakroom for lunch. Conversation drifts—everyone's too tired to talk much. Focusing on menial work without any progress can be draining like that. Usually, Matsuda attempts to lighten the mood with some jokes or meaningless chatter, but he just isn't up to it.

He hasn't been up for it for awhile now, he thinks.

“You look rough, man,” Ide suddenly addresses him, “Maybe you should take some time off.”

His brows raise, surprised Ide even notices—it must be bad if even the other members are paying attention now.

“Ah, I'm fine. Just tired,” he laughs it off, but he sounds unconvincing even to his own ears.

Aizawa hums, clearly not buying it. “You ever think about doing something outside the job? Meet someone, maybe?”

“Someone?” Matsuda blinks.

“Yeah. Get a drink, a date, I don't know. You’d be better off than sitting here obsessing with the rest of us.”

Ide chimes in again before he can react. “We should take you for drinks tonight and introduce you to someone. A woman would set you right,” he chuckles dryly, leaning back in his chair.

“Maybe then he'll stop showing up before sunrise,” Aizawa jokes, nodding in agreement.

Matsuda feels a blush tingle the back of his neck. They're just joking, of course, but God, they talk like he's some lonely stray they need to pawn off.

“I don't know, I—”

“Actually, I’ll need Matsuda-san for something tonight.” Light suddenly cuts in, making Matsuda jump. He glances over to see him entering the room with files in hand. He looks casual, like he just happened to catch the tailend of their conversation.

But Matsuda has a sneaking suspicion that he heard every word.

Matsuda relaxes in his chair, thankful for the interruption, even as the tingle on his neck crawls to his ears. Because—unlike the others—he can hear what is laced in that tone he uses. It's something he's getting more and more familiar with…

Possession.

Aizawa shrugs and their conversation turns elsewhere. But Matsuda tunes them out, more focused on Light as they briefly lock eyes, sending a current to his core.

He suppresses a shiver and spends the rest of the shift wondering what Light needs him alone for.

“You two locking up?” Aizawa asks, shrugging on his coat. Ide and Mogi wait for him at the door, chatting back and forth about something Matsuda can't hear.

“Yes. We won't take long,” Light replies, eyes sliding toward Matsuda in a quick glance before returning to Aizawa. Aizawa nods, bidding them a good night as he follows the others, disappearing into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind him.

Silence envelops the room, accompanied only by the buzz of the AC. Matsuda shifts in his chair, the distance from Light feeling shorter than it truly is. Now that they're alone, the air seems to carry a new weight, a kind of pressure that Matsuda only ever feels around him.

He licks his lips and glances at Light as he stacks some papers into a neat pile. He waits and waits while Light takes his time cleaning up, not once looking in his direction.

His leg bounces restlessly with anticipation, eyes lingering on Light's slender fingers as they card through files with precision and intent, searching for something.

“Are you just going to stare?” Light finally breaks the quiet, raising a brow at him. Matsuda quickly looks away, heat rushing to his cheeks.

Light approaches him with a file in hand and stops at his desk, leaning against it. He looks down on Matsuda with the elegant poise of a cat.

Matsuda swallows.

“Sorry,” he says, trying and failing to meet his gaze. “What is it that you need me for?”

Just the idea that Light means to rely on him sends a nervous thrill through his chest. He leans forward in his chair anxiously. Light is giving him an opportunity—he's not stupid enough to waste it.

Light clears his throat. “There's a development I'm not ready to bring to the task force yet,” he begins, setting the folder down between them.

Matsuda glances at the inconspicuous folder, equal parts nervous and curious. “Why not?”

Light exhales, slow and careful. “Because if I’m wrong, it wastes time we don’t have. And if I’m right…” His voice trails off, and he looks to Matsuda again.

“I wanted a second set of eyes I could trust.”

His breath catches and he nods.

Trust. It feels delicate, fragile. Matsuda is afraid that a single breath out of place will shatter it.

Light finally opens the folder and spreads its contents across the table. He gestures for Matsuda to stand, so he does, their shoulders brushing as they lean over the desk together.

Graphs. Behavioral mapping. Probabilities layered over timelines. Names appear in the margins, and a bold N adorns the top of one of the pages.

Near.

Bewildered, his brows knit together and he looks over the fragmented patterns and lines.

“Are these… predictions?”

Light nods, fingers tracing along one of the timelines. “Near doesn't investigate people the way L did. He studies outcomes. If enough responses align, he doesn’t need proof…”

“…just probability.” Matsuda finishes as it slowly dawns on him, dread pooling in his chest. “That's… dangerous.”

“Yes. That's what troubles me.” He sighs, sounding tired.

“He's looking for which scenario collapses first—not for Kira.”

Could that be true?

Matsuda studies the graph closest to him. The task force appears in fragments—reactions, delays, stress thresholds. Written like mere variables as opposed to allies. As if…

“He's testing us.” He blurts, eyes widening a fraction at the realization.

Light leans in imperceptibly. “That's what I think too.”

Despite the gravity of such a revelation, Matsuda feels weightless at his affirmation, heart skipping.

He looks at Light, reminding himself to focus. “So, you want me to…?”

“Help me check for bias,” Light says. “Near builds models that favor his assumptions. If we catch where he expects failure, we can see where he’s pushing.”

Matsuda stills, eyes flicking over the papers and lingering at a point.

“Like this?” He asks, hesitant.

He points to a convergence mark on one of the timelines—three independent actions funneling into a collapse scenario.

Light’s eyes track his finger.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Exactly like that.”

Matsuda's straightens, chest fluttering, more confident as he scans the papers again.

“Here too—look. If the task force delays communication by even a few minutes in these branches, the probability spikes. Its like he's… luring us into the delay.”

Light studies the page longer this time.

“…You’re right again.”

Matsuda has to stifle the warmth blooming beneath his ribcage—this is serious, something that could mean disaster for the task force. But it doesn't stop the rush he feels from gaining Light's favor.

They stay like this well into the night; quiet back and forth, tracing patterns, a kind of camaraderie between them that borders on intimate. Especially when, at one point, Light leans over his shoulder to read a smaller margin note—impossibly close—and neither of them move away.

“If Near is right,” Matsuda says eventually, hesitant, “then the task force is already walking into whatever he’s planning.”

Light closes the file with a slow tap. “Which is why this can’t leave this room yet.”

He meets Matsuda's gaze with sharp intent, staring right through him. The kind of look that makes him stand subconsciously straighter.

Matsuda nods. “Of course, you can count on me.”

Light's eyes soften, just barely. “I know.”

He gathers the papers and slides them back into the unlabeled folder, then pauses just a moment before handing it to Matsuda. Their fingers brush as he passes it over.

“Keep it with you for now,” Light says. “Look through it when you can. Tomorrow, we compare notes.”

Matsuda takes it carefully, as if it were made of glass.

“...are you sure?” The folder feels heavy in his hands. The weight of something secret, shared only between them.

“Yes.”

It's firm—certain. Matsuda's doubt dissolves into mist. Light trusts him, so he has no room to doubt himself.

For a long moment, neither of them move. Matsuda has to hold his breath.

“You should go,” Light finally says. “It’s late.”

He steps away, the space between them reasserting itself. Matsuda exhales slowly, nodding, even as his fingertips twitch with the urge to pull him back.

When he gets to the door, he pauses. “Light?”

Light looks up, brown hair slipping loose from behind his ear

“Thanks. For… trusting me.”

Something unreadable passes through Light’s eyes.

“Goodnight, Matsuda.”

The door closes behind him.

Matsuda stands alone in the hallway, heart racing, hands heavy with the weight of their shared secret.

Light trusts him.

It has been an enlightening night.

Light watches Matsuda leave with a faint quirk to his lips, warmth curling low in his chest at the satisfaction of it. He can almost hear the jackrabbit beat of Matsuda’s pulse from the other side of the door.

Once, this had all been little more than a diversion. A harmless curiosity born from monotony and predictability, a way to pass time.

Somewhere along the way, it became something else.

He took the bait so easily.

Matsuda had leapt at the chance to keep a secret—to be chosen, singled out for something important. The glint in his eyes had been sharp, sharper than Light had ever seen it. Purpose does that to a person. So does being seen.

Matsuda is capable. He just… lacks direction.

He needs someone to take all that reckless enthusiasm and hone it into something precise, maybe even dangerous. And after tonight, Light is quite certain he can be that guiding hand.

The others on the task force overlook him; they patronize him and laugh him off because they do not see the value in someone who would burn himself hollow just to be useful.

Light does.

He returns to his seat and idly straightens the files Matsuda had pored over so intently. Near’s work is buried in them—fragments of a future problem. But that can wait.

What matters is tonight worked.

Matsuda now believes he is trusted—that he's needed. He believes that whatever passed between them tonight exists outside the reach of the others.

Light exhales softly through his nose, gaze drifting to the darkened doorway.

Things that shine this brightly are meant to be used.