[private]

[subversion]

It's another day, another kitchen - the first one Light was able to find, which happens to be on the sixth floor; finding his stolen room again will be a trial. He isn't taking any better care of himself - his tracksuit hangs about him, loose and dirty, patterned in that ridiculous hospital paisley nobody would ever wear, why did the mansion insist on giving this to him? His hair is increasingly unkempt and greasy, like his skin; he smells as if he hasn't showered for a week, which is true.

He stays hidden until he can't ignore the problems of his body any longer - which is why he's leaning over one of the counters, eating his way through a fruitbowl. Maybe if they come in, they won't notice him. Won't see him at all.

[[OOC: private to refractings.]]

Comments

[refractings.livejournal.com]

[Light sometimes comes to this particular kitchen. It's used less than some of the others, and he's not always in the mood to chance meeting people. He isn't expecting anyone else to be in the room today, either, so when he opens the door and sees his double, he pauses, startled. In that moment, he takes in the rumpled clothes, the uncleaned hair, the awkward curve of his alternate's back, as though he hopes that if he makes himself as unobtrusive as possible he'll become completely invisible.

Light thinks of the older double, the one who had just arrived when Light met him, and whom Light hasn't seen again. This one's age looks about the same, but otherwise...

Then again, the man had seemed off from the start. With the older ones, Light is learning, you never know.

He's carrying a stack of plates and silverware -- he eats in his room, usually, and takes the accumulated dishes back to a kitchen every two or three days. He sets them down carefully on the nearest countertop, not making unnecessary noise but not trying to disguise his presence, either.]

[subversion.livejournal.com]

[Light is picking one segment after another from a satsuma, small, awkward flicks of his hand like a squirrel trying to work a nutcracker. Hearing footsteps behind him - they know, they're here, they'll see you - he casts a glance over his shoulder. Sees his alternate.

His eyes close tight, and he mumbles incoherent dislike, turning back to his satsuma. There's still pith on it, which is slowly being transferred to a pile on the counter before him. By the looks of things, he's already disposed of an apple, two bananas, and all the grapes.]

[refractings.livejournal.com]

[And Light will feel smug about this encounter later, he knows -- and perhaps unnerved, perhaps afraid as well, but right now the sight of himself like this is too much to ignore. He sighs.]

You should at least be eating some protein.

[subversion.livejournal.com]

[Light's lips murmur to himself, out of sight, out of earshot: babada babada babada; if he's moving, listening, distracted, they can't scream at him. He raises his voice, somewhat slurred, barely audible.]

Kira. You're Kira.

[Oh, he remembers this one - doesn't he? somewhere? - and remembers not liking him. But then, he hasn't liked any of his alternates, and they've all merged into one for him.]

[refractings.livejournal.com]

[The sight stirs something in him that bears a passing resemblance to compassion. But no more than a passing resemblance -- it's too inundated with patronization and a crawling, irrational sense of embarrassment. He doesn't want anyone to see him like this, even if it's technically a double.]

I'm not, actually. [He crosses the short distance to the refrigerator and pulls out a sealed container of chopped vegetables and chicken, ready to stir-fry. He has a few meals pre-prepared in this kitchen and one or two others, and he replenishes his stock twice a week: often enough to retain freshness while seldom enough for the practice to be efficient.]

I'm going to make chicken stir-fry. [The implication -- that he had been planning on doing so when he came to the kitchen -- is untrue.] I'll make enough for you as well.

[It will cook quickly, and the pieces are small enough for his alternate to eat with his hands, if he wants to do so. Light, naturally, will be using chopsticks, but sanitation seems not to matter so much to the copy.]

[subversion.livejournal.com]

[Getting pity out of one of his alternates is not exactly everything Light could want. His hand tightens around the satsuma he's stripping down; the juice congeals on his fingers, and smarts beneath bitten cuticles. His breath catches in a sob. He'd rather the other one had told him what a disgusting mess he is - because he knows it, he does, and perhaps part of that is why he's wearing the tracksuit at all.]

No. Don't want anything of yours. Ever.

[Oh, his instincts still tell him to lie - but he gives himself away; there's too much sticky envy, too much of a croak to his voice. I want what you have, and I hate it.]

[refractings.livejournal.com]

[Light pauses halfway through retrieving the wok from the clutter of pots and pans under the counter.] It's not mine, as such. It's the Mansion's food. You have as much of a claim to it as I do.

[Of course, if he found anyone using the food he's prepared, he would make the opposite argument, but that's hardly relevant. He pulls the wok out from the cupboard and sets it on the stove.]

[subversion.livejournal.com]

You touched it. You—

[He's about ready to say you touched her - but the ghost in front of him doesn't look like the one from the death room. He breaks off, confused; his eyes squeeze closed. There's noise in his head.]

[refractings.livejournal.com]

[It's uncomfortable, almost painful, to hear him. Light wants to fix him, although he almost doesn't recognize the urge.]

Should I rinse it before I put it on?

[subversion.livejournal.com]

Pointless.

[He still knows how it works - anything too unpleasant will be burned off in the fire. Cleansed. And it's not for this one, it's not for Kira to do that. He can't hear, or process, his alternate's denials. The satsuma bursts a leak in his hand; turning to watch the other one, he starts picking off segments and eating them, just to watch him squirm.]

I won't eat it.

[Though if he's left alone with it, he might. Now that he's facing forward, his teeth show when he speaks; it's a giveaway, or a confirmation.]

[refractings.livejournal.com]

[Light doesn't react, doesn't flinch, although he very much wants to.]

Perhaps, but it's not as though we're in the midst of a food shortage.

[Adding oil to the wok as it heats up, he speaks in a casual tone, as though he's making small talk.] This place is a hub for what's probably an infinite variety of universes. It's not statistically possible that you're the only version of us in the whole collection of universes who isn't Kira.

[subversion.livejournal.com]

... no.

[It's possible his logic is unique - then again, the feelings he's expressing aren't uncommon in the mansion. It's simply that he echoes them in literal form.]

We're all the same. So we all did it. Only one of us, really.

[refractings.livejournal.com]

[Gently, or as close to it as Light can get without sacrificing his pride:] If we're all Kira, then you are as well.

[In truth, his double's reasoning echoes many of his own thoughts. (Of course it does, they're essentially the same person -- but that smells of circular logic.) Simultaneously Kira and not Kira -- Light wonders what the single decaying atom equates to in this metaphor, and whether he or the other is the one that survived.]

[[[ooc: DOUBLE EDITS FTW... er, sorry, evidently my proofreading is fail tonight forever and ever.]]]

[subversion.livejournal.com]

[His words are dragged off the top of his head. Talking is too difficult; moving is more so. His hate and conflict - for himself, for this other - are trying to break out through his skin; he can feel them pushing.]

No. I'm not me.

[It makes so much sense, just now. If there's only one of him, and all the others think he's wrong, and Light himself thinks he's wrong, what does logic demand?]

[refractings.livejournal.com]

[Okay. Light clearly needs to keep this rather simple.]

Who else would you be?

[The oil in the wok is beginning to sizzle, but it's not quite hot enough yet. Light carries his bowl of food over to the kitchen sink and dumps it into a colander, which he sets under the tap. He turns on the water and lets it run over the vegetables and chicken bits for a moment. (He grimaces a bit at the latter, but what can he do?)]

[subversion.livejournal.com]

[The question isn't answered right away; possibly not even heard. Oh, Light can tell the other one thinks he's stupid, and it's not that he can't think - though he can't think clearly. It's just so hard to express himself today.

It doesn't help that he doesn't like that question, and is drifting a little higher today, slowly coming back to himself. Enough that he won't just spill the response of I'm nobody.]

That'll spit. The—

[One hand gestures jerkily towards the pan: you can't throw water into hot oil, it's hydrophobic, it'll explode. He's not entirely oblivious to his surroundings, for all that he's still cornered himself against the counter.]

[refractings.livejournal.com]

It'll be fine. I'm going to dry it first. [He doesn't sound overtly placating, but he also doesn't seem to be impatient or irritated.

The water's been running on the food for long enough to satisfy any reasonable person, so Light keeps it on for a few more seconds before turning it off and shaking the colander over the sink. When the little drops of water stop falling from it, he sets it on the counter, and tears a fair length of paper towels loose from the roll on the wall. After wiping down a section of counter, he lays out the towels, two layers thick, the whole time being careful not to touch the sides that the food will go on. Equally carefully, he makes sure his double can see that he's doing so.]