Death Note Fan Fiction ❯ PITCH ❯ Porcelain ( Chapter 2 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

 

Pitch: (def.) 

A substance commonly utilized to bind materials in construction... Tar pitch appears solid, and can be shattered with a hard impact, but it is actually fluid. Pitch flows at room temperature, but extremely slowly. To attain maximum fluidity, to be used, it must be exposed to heat.

 

Minds are like pitch. To reveal their full potential, they must be exposed to environs that apply stress. They must be challenged.

 

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Part 2: (Porcelain)

 

 

The next night, L took a detour.

 

He almost went to back to the bar filled with the blazing determination to get back what was his, dammit, when he reconsidered. 

 

What better way to distract himself from something so at odds with his goal of being able to be one with these people than to make himself endure something even more painful? The strip club. 

 

That may sound masochistic to the casual observer, but L was certain that he was not. He merely had something he had set out to achieve and, by god, he was going to do it. Besides, they had liquor at the club. That would help.

 

Today he not only wore shoes, laces and all, but jeans that practically fit him. Little steps. He'd even combed his hair out properly, though you wouldn't know by looking at it. The changes made him ill-at-ease, but the thought of stepping into the exotic dancers club outstripped them all. Ha.

 

This city harbored a pedestrian society, so things were conveniently located close to other things. This pleased L. He was not overly fond of cars. 

 

The strip club, "Tiddleywink", had garish pink, neon lights. How had he not realized the nature of this establishment the first time? It was embarrassingly obvious, now. Naivety meet Worldliness. See? He felt much better equipped already.

 

Once inside, he found the darkness reeked of cigarette smoke and some unnameable thing he didn't bother himself to dwell on. A spotlight was trained on the stage where a girl in her twenties was shaking everything in her possession to a tune with a lot of bass. The crowd around the stage seemed to enjoy this immensely, and had no qualms about vocalizing the sentiment.

 

L made himself sit at a table near the front - open due to the fact that it was a weeknight - despite wanting to do otherwise. He cursed the brunette with his pen for forcing him into this place. He looked at the dancer, watched her writhe and contort and drive her audience wild, and wondered, really, what was the point?

 

"Wouldya like a drink?" a female server asked him with a smile, while smacking bubblegum obnoxiously.

 

"Something strong," L replied. "Surprise me."

 

"You got it," she smacked, flouncing away.

 

God help him, this was awful. He had little to no interest in the display on the stage, and the company he kept in the audience was less savory than that in the bar. Mainly because he was somewhat horrified by the lascivious gazes being fixed on the dancing girl, but largely because they were stuffing money into her skimpy, ruffled thong underwear.

 

When L's drink arrived, he sipped it gratefully, not caring what it was, blessing the haze it cast over this whole affair.

 

See... if he was a masochist, he would make himself stuff bills into the underoos of the dancers. But he wasn't, so he wouldn't.

 

He frowned into his drink. What was in this thing? This was hitting him harder than anything he'd ever had prior. He flagged down the waitress, who had a special smile ready, just for him.

 

"Long Island Iced Tea," she said when asked, smacking her gum coyly. "Double strength. Looked like you needed to unwind, sugar. Enjoy it." She patted him on the shoulder with a wink, and disappeared with her tray of drinks. 

 

(Many hours later, he would be "enjoying it" for an undetermined amount of time in the bathroom at home, chalking the misery up to "experience". But for now, he was blissfully unaware of that future excitement.)

 

L listened to the music as dancer after dancer hit the stage, determining 20 seconds into the second song that it was not to his liking. As such, he analyzed it intently, trying to identify what exactly about it the 'normal' people found appealing. At the end of his first drink, his brain hampered to an absurd extent, he decided it was the catchy beats. It most certainly wouldn't be the deep and compelling lyrics. Chorus, verse, chorus, chorus. Under 50 words. He could probably write a better song if he were of a mind to attempt it.

 

There was the occasional tune that offered more than the rest and he found himself tapping his fingers to the beat, appeased by the upgrade in skill. Maybe it wasn't so bad.

 

Then again, maybe he was just appallingly drunk.

 

He signaled to the serving girl with the gum, Wedy, she'd told him. Resisting the urge to relate the general unattractiveness that gum-smacking presented to the other party -she'd grow out of it- he requested another drink.

 

The young blonde cocked her head at him. "I don't know, sweetie, you seem like you've had enough."

 

"Isn't it in your best monetary interest to serve me, regardless?" 

 

She frowned a little. "Well, sure, but..."

 

"I'll have a rum and coke," he stated plainly. He was not slurring. He was very careful to enunciate each word so that it came out perfectly coherent.

 

She raised a sculpted eyebrow at him. "Suuure. Whatever you say, hun. And mixing alcohols...don't blame me for the fallout." The last, she said under her breath, but he heard it anyway.  He dismissed it as unimportant and smiled at her back. He could handle it, he was sure, despite her lack of confidence.

 

---

 

The passing of the remainder of that night did not bear mentioning. Suffice it to say, he had become intimately acquainted with the porcelain goddess upon somehow making it back home, and was not eager to repeat the experience any time soon. Or ever.

 

A profuse amount of water kept him from feeling too wildly out of sorts the next day, and held off the expected headache, allowing him to persevere with work with only an upset stomach to hamper him.

 

When he came downstairs for breakfast, having put in a solid three hours on the case by 9 o'clock after two hours of fitful sleep, he surprised Watari by selecting only a banana and a cup of coffee. And, of course, another glass of water.

 

"Are you ok, L? You realize there are still sugared cherry scones in the-"

 

L nodded dismissively. "I'm fine. Just a change of pace."

 

Watari regarded him skeptically.

 

L decided to retreat back to the haven of his laptop. "See you at lunch," he mumbled, stealing away with his unorthodox breakfast food. 

 

---

 

10 p.m. found L struggling into clothing that he was not entirely convinced he would be able to stand for the next five minutes, let alone the next several hours. He would be going to the bar again, and as he would most certainly not be drinking, he had to employ some other form of comfort-zone-wrecking discomfort.

 

It was either clothes first, or communicating with people. This seemed the lesser evil by 1,000 miles.

 

He'd made good progress since the implementation of this experiment. 

 

His mind was so focused on trying to survive all of this, and adjust, that it had stilled the impending feel of total isolation. He was escaping himself, and his mental prison, slowly but surely. 

 

He viewed himself in the mirror, a grimace twisting upon his lips. Granted, his gut was constantly in knots and he may be developing an ulcer from the stress... but for every gain, you can expect a loss or two.

 

He tucked a pen into the slightly baggy but form-fitting jeans, one he wouldn't mind losing were it stolen by some jerk with a flashy smile, and tugged at the white button-down shirt. The clothes felt odd. The touch of a collar against his neck was exceptionally so, being utterly foreign to him after his comfortable low-neck sweatshirt.

 

If Watari wondered at his uncharacteristic choice in clothing, he said nothing.

 

L still didn't tell his mentor where he was going, but thought maybe he should consider remedying that in the future. The older man did worry, despite appearances.

 

The walk to the bar took approximately twelve minutes. The strip club was another 8.4 minutes past that, but that was extraneous information as that was not his destination tonight. He steeled himself to his entry, swinging the heavy door of the bar open, and weaving around a cluster of people that were clogging the entryway. Luckily, there were at least two tables still available - the majority of people were standing around talking or were dancing. Securing a ginger ale from the bartender, he made his way over to one.

 

As expected, the clothes were preoccupying him with their deviation from his standard garments.

 

He took his pen out, ignoring the flicker of annoyance he still felt at losing the small silver one, and began doodling on his coaster. He idly wondered if any of the employees would be aggravated over his glass resting and dripping so brazenly on the wood tabletop, as he misused the square piece of cardboard intended to rest beneath it.  His not-favorite pen did not spread its ink as smoothly as its predecessor, as could be expected. Store bought crap, he thought, looking up now and then to people watch as he worked at his scribbles.

 

He perfected the art of marking the cardboard in the smallest of strokes, making it take a much longer time to fill in.

 

Tonight, in minuscule script, he had copied down an interesting quote or two by philosophers he related to. Intertwined with the words of Nietzsche was a straying into some advanced quantum mechanics -just to keep himself from getting rusty- and a half-hearted attempt at a human face that looked rather grotesque even to him.

 

"Excuse me, sir," an employee interrupted him, giving an odd look to his empty glass on the table and the better use to which he was applying his coaster. "Ah... Here. Someone sent this over to you with their compliments." The male server placed the drink on the table, a coaster beneath it.

 

L was perplexed. Was it a common occurrence to send a drink to someone like this? 

 

A strange thing caught his eye. Two strange things, to be precise. One was that the drink was the same one he had ordered every time he'd had a drink in this establishment, though the bartender tonight was one he hadn't yet seen. The other was a small, perfectly-rendered gothic L on the corner of the coaster in rich black ink. Perplexed, he lifted the tumbler of whiskey and took the white cardboard out from under it. He flipped it over reflexively as he pondered the oddity, and back again. 

 

He paused.

 

Taking a moment to register what he thought he'd just seen on the back, he flipped it over again. Sure enough, the back had, several nights ago, been the front of the first coaster he had scribbled onto. He looked at the new addition, the tiny L, done with such perfection that it seemed to say, 'See here, this is how it is done', in what appeared to be the same quality of ink. 

 

He frowned, wondering who was responsible and was putting the tumbler back onto the table, when he noticed it: a distinctive silver sheen. 

 

Surprise flooded through him. Hidden from view initially, was the glint of his previously-stolen pen. He quickly looked around, trying to ascertain the whereabouts of the person behind this. Had the well-dressed brunette returned the pen to an employee, for some reason? But he had waited here so long that night... Had the man also sent the drink, or had that been someone else? It was hard to say, but one thing was for certain - it had not been an employee that had collected his drink that first night as he had originally thought.

 

He reached for his pen, noting the unmarred sheen that was everywhere but the place the server's fingers had touched. It had been polished prior to its return. Curious.

 

Wiping it once more on his shirt to remove the prints, he found something even more curious. The pen felt rather light. 

 

Opening it up, he looked inside. The tip of the ball point cartridge was not in evidence. With nimble fingers, he unscrewed the pieces of the body and found exactly what he expected. The barrel was empty. 

 

His mouth twisted in irritation. The brunette was messing with him.

 

He upended the longer portion of the body, tapping into his palm the rolled slip of paper he had spied inside. While reassembling the pen and putting it into his pocket, he regarded the paper on the table. It was innocuous enough, as much as a thing could be when delivered in what he could only perceive as an inexplicably complicated and circuitous manner.

 

Picking up the slender, light-weight tube, he unfurled its edges to find a note had been written to him in anally meticulous print. It almost looked as if it must have been typed, it was that unerringly precise. Every letter was identical to the other appearances of itself, perfect. But it was handwritten; he could feel the tactile presence of the letters, pressed there by someone's hand, on the back of the paper. 

 

Finally, he allowed himself the actual message.

 

It was written in English.

 

He quirked his brow at that. He happened to be British himself, but did not look distinctly so. More likely, the person who wrote this expected him to know more than one language, for some reason. The note read:

 

Thank you for the use of your pen. It is of fine quality. Unfortunately, the cartridge seems to be a difficult thing to replace. 

 

L sensed a certain smugness and lifting of brows to those words. 'Unfortunately for you,' they implied. How infuriating that the person had removed the cartridge merely to be a pest.

 

Perhaps if you look to the back, you will find what you are looking for.

 

L's head whipped up and he looked towards the back of the room. There, lounging against the wall, smoking a cigarette, was the tall brunette with the blinding smile. The man caught his eye, then raised his hand slightly.

 

L was taken off guard when the man's hand gracefully formed sign language, and he fell to interpreting it instead of advancing upon him.

 

You discovered that just as quickly as I expected, the man signed at him. He followed that with a smile and an email address.

 

L puzzled about that a moment too long. What I'm looking for...? The brunette pushed off the wall and disappeared around the corner. L thought about pursuing, but refrained. He glared at the glass of whiskey he was sure now came from the brunette, a drink he had no intention of accepting, let alone drinking. Giving his email address indicated the man might be willing to return the remainder of his pen after all, but why was he being so eccentric about it? I feel like I am being tested... 

 

Was the well-dressed man gathering information on him? Testing his intelligence? But why? 

 

And he apparently wanted L to know it, for why else would he return the coaster with L's scribblings? And at the same time as the pen, so L would be sure to make a connection... The brunette was also announcing that he had, for some reason, decided to acquire the item from L's table in the first place.

 

L shook his head and stood up from the table, shoving his hands into the too-tight pockets of his new jeans as he left the bar earlier than planned.

 

He was being toyed with, and he did not appreciate it one bit. He scowled as he stepped outside and turned in the direction of home. 

 

"Can I call you 'L'?" a polished voice asked smoothly as a set of footsteps fell into pace with his own.

 

He didn't need to look up. He knew, aside from the obvious reference to his scribble-ridden coaster, that it belonged to the brunette. Perhaps it was the coloring of self-satisfaction and pridefulness that colored the words. "No," he replied shortly. Any curiosity he had about this individual was being crushed by the fact that a total stranger had pulled one over on him. He suffered a slight bout of egotism now and then, and this person was stomping all over it with his shiny, expensive looking shoes.

 

("Then can I call you Lawliet?") the brunette asked in English, a smile evident in his voice.

 

L's intent was to ignore the man until he went away but that smug voice set him off. (("You think you're pretty clever, don't you?")) L said in rapid French. (("Am I supposed to be impressed that you stole my pen and were able to read my name engraved on the side?"))

 

The brunette's rich brown eyes lit up with amusement. ("Your French is beautiful,") he said enigmatically, staying with English. 

 

For a moment, L felt triumphant, surely if the brunette had understood what he'd just said, he would have had more of a response to offer.

 

(("However,")) the young man said in fluid French, (("it is a bit rustic, don't you think?"))

 

(- "Bite me," -) L said in harsh German, turning on his heel.

 

(- "How hard?" -) the brunette asked innocently, matching that language as well.

 

L retreated to Japanese as he walked -as he was followed- and resisted the urge to wring the cocky bastard's throat. "What is your purpose in engaging me this way?"

 

"I find you intriguing," the brunette said pleasantly, switching to Japanese. "The reason I am following you is because I am quite certain that you would not contact me through the method I provided, due to some misplaced sense of irritation."

 

"Justified irritation," L contradicted him in a surly tone. 

 

"You still would not have contacted me," the well-dressed man pressed, a smile quirking his lips. 

 

"You think you know me that well, without ever having spoken to me before?"

 

"Well enough. You left the drink untouched, just as I predicted."

 

L stopped, fixing the man with a frown. "What is your name?"

 

"Ah, Lawliet, showing interest at last?" the other man smirked.

 

"No, I simply find it tiresome to curse someone in my head repeatedly, with only the use of adjectives to make it personal."

 

"Hmm? And what words do you use to describe me?"  He brushed at his silky bangs as they fell over his amused, long-lashed eyes.

 

"Pompous, conceited, ill-mannered," L responded easily. 

 

"Oh?" the brunette said with a smile. "But I've been nothing but cordial to you, Lawliet. And as you pointed out, you would hardly know enough about me to claim the other two." 

 

L fumed. "It's written all over your face! You're painfully arrogant."

 

"About as arrogant as yourself, I'd wager, seeing as your temper manifested only after you felt bested."

 

"You're insufferable," L muttered in frustration. Alas, but he was also incredibly intrigued.

 

"If I might ask..." the brunette said carefully, reaching out to pluck at the corner of L's shirt collar. "What are you hoping to accomplish?"

 

L stiffened and just stared at the other man as his personal space was invaded. For no reason that he could name, he cataloged the color of the other's eyes as being more of a ruddy amber. "What're you--"

 

"You may call me Raito."

 

L paused as if chided. "Raito," he rolled the name on his tongue experimentally. He wondered if it were really the Japanese pronunciation of the English word 'light'. "Please remove your hand from my shirt. I like to maintain the generally accepted three foot rule when it comes to personal space."

 

"Of course," Raito murmured, "But first, answer my question."

 

L frowned. "What am I hoping to accomplish?"

 

"Yes," the brunette replied, fingertips running over the shirt, just over L's collarbone. "There is something new about you every time I see you." L found he was holding his breath. "Tonight, it's this shirt... the first night, it was the strange way you sat that you suddenly changed."

 

L felt mildly unnerved and and a little exhilarated. "Are you trying to tell me that you are a stalker?"

 

Raito's hand brushed down his chest (accidentally?) as he pulled back with a laugh. "You're being serious...?" More of that smooth laughter. "I would like to say that I am merely observant."

 

"That's mere semantics."

 

"As you say," Raito seemed inclined to concede the point out of good-will rather than by any sort of agreement. He slanted a glance at L before saying, "Actually, I must be going... I have business to attend to." He paused, awaiting L's reaction.

 

L shrugged. "Fine by me. I have work to attend to, myself."

 

L started walking, not giving the brunette a second look, though he sort of wanted to. If he did, the other man would somehow win. The rotten pen-thief's conceit did not deserve, nor did it need that kind of boost.

 

"By the way, Lawliet," Raito called after him, "the email address was a fake."

 

What?! Of all the asinine- L made a face and turned in the same motion, and was irked beyond belief when all he got was a view of the brunette's retreating back and a jaunty wave. Damn it.

 

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TBC

 

A/N: It is quite fun to write ridiculously intelligent characters, because of all the things they can do! Several languages?? Why not? :D

 

I hope this story provides you with some entertainment. Review, and let me know what you think!