About six months after your last meeting you received a package. The package did not have a return address, but you recognized the handwriting distinctly; he always pushed a bit too hard with his pen, leaving unnecessary indents in the envelope. Enclosed was cash, check-in information for a hotel, two tickets— to and from— from the Tokyo International Airport, a package of black face masks with "WEAR" written on the box in black marker, and a burner phone. Logically, you knew that going was a bad idea, but logic did not deter you from going. You knew what this was about; you wanted to be at his service, at least. You did not know any Japanese. You bought a book full of basic phrases; you were given only a week or so's notice before your flight, so you were hardly in any position to take care of the semantics. You considered hiring a translator, but you decided against it; in your mind, there was little you would need to know for this sort of trip.You bought funeral clothes— he gave you too much for this trip— packed a suitcase and arrived at the airport and arrived in the early morning.

A man was holding a poster with your name on it.

Bag slung over your shoulder, mask securely in place—why he would insist was beyond you; he was never a germaphobe—you walked up to him. "Are you my ride?"

He stared at you, turned, and started walking.

You trailed behind him. "If I'm not," you said, "now's the time to say, 'cause I don't know Japanese all that well, and I dunno how to hail a cab."

He ignored you.

You sighed, sliding your hands into your pockets. "You're not very talkative, are you?" You smiled, growing increasingly awkward. "That's kinda funny, given what I'm here for. Are you going?"

You left pauses for him to answer as if he would.

"Well," you huffed, "I'm going, anyway. I don't go to many funerals, but who can pass up a free trip?" You laughed, realizing quickly that you may as well be talking to yourself. "It's not funny that you're quiet—people deal with grief in different ways, I get—but because he was always so talkative, wasn't he?"

You decided you were not a fan of this man. If he did not understand you, he could say so without making you feel like an idiot. If he did, then he was just being rude.

The two of you arrived at a car. You slipped into the passenger seat, him the driver. He did not ask for an address; you supposed he knew where he was going.

You folded your hands on top of your suitcase. "You could at least give me your name." You crossed your ankles, swaying your feet back and forth. "I'll give you mine if you do."

He kept looking ahead.

"You're a blast at parties, I'm sure." You slid down in your seat. "You could humor me at least."

Nothing.

"If you don't tell me your name I'll call you something dumb."

He continued to ignore you.

"You got it, Billy Bob Joe." You grinned childishly. "That's fun to say. Bill– can I call you Bill?– how did you know him?"

His mouth did not even twitch.

"He was my boyfriend, you know." Your smile softened. "I was with him for five years." Sighing, you propped your feet on the dashboard. "How long has he been dead?"

You could not see if he was looking at you. He had sunglasses on.

"I'd like to think his... what was Watari anyways?" You sunk further down in your seat. "He never told me. Isn't he his guardian?" You waved it off. "Point is I'd hope Watari would let me know about that sort of thing, but he's always been so weird. I mean, he was too, but uniquely weird, you know?"

You did not bother to check if he responded. You looked out the window, the sun just beginning to peek above the horizon.

You leaned against your hand. "It's tonight, right? The service? Are you taking me there too?"

No response.

"I won't count on it." Your eyes trained on a piece of graffiti, written in characters you recognized. "Long live our lord, Kira" it read. "I forgot about Kira. He's supposed to be in this area, right?" You looked back at him instinctually, but continued as if he was not there. "You know, he told me he was like an assassin; was he supposed to be doing that?" You chuckled at the thought humorlessly. "Imagine that, being told to kill Kira. It's an odd thought. Not that he doesn't deserve it," you clarified, picking at your fingernails, "but we can't catch him, let alone kill him right now. It was clever, that thing L did, but even if it was possible or feasible or whatever, you'd still have his fanatics and whatnot to deal with, so you'd have to satiate them first, and crowds like that aren't easily satisfied."

The vehicle slowed to a stop in front of a building. The man reached into his pocket, pulling out a card between his index and middle fingers.

You took the car, nodded a quiet "thank you" and walked out. You looked up at the sign; nowhere you recognized. You shrugged, walked inside. It was a love hotel. You smiled at that; your lover was economic if nothing else. Check-in went quickly enough; the room was dark and clean enough and you needed nothing more from your hotel.

You flopped down on the bed, exhaled slowly. According to the card, in twelve hours, you were going to get picked up. You considered food, but thought better of it; you were sure you would vomit it up if you tried.

You sunk into the mattress. This was going to be a long day.

The service was not so much a service as it was one man– a police officer, you had been informed by one of the younger attendants– saying his piece– translated quietly to you by what you thought was his son– over what you assumed was the grave of your lover– assumed because there was no name on the cross. It was short. People had to get back to work. There were no flowers apart from the ones you had brought, no candles, no picture, no way to tell who was buried there. You took the word of the men glancing suspiciously glancing back at you that yes, you were in the right place. You would have thought his caretaker would be in attendance. Maybe he died too.

All but one other person had left the gravesite five minutes after the man at the front stopped talking. Quietly, you kneeled in front of the tombstone, lacing your fingers on your lap as you looked up at the piece of stone. You promised yourself before you came that you would not cry, especially not in front of strangers, but your resolve was quickly crumbling. It was one thing, in your mind, to be dead, but to not even have a name on your gravestone was another matter entirely.

You swallowed, bowing your head. You refused to start crying at that moment. Someone else was still here.

The boy, who had been translating the obituary for you, sat down next to you. "How did you know him?"

You did not lookup. "He was my lover." A part of you was proud of how even your voice was. "You?"

It took him a second too long to respond. "He was my coworker." He laughed softly. "I never knew Ryuga was interested in romance; he never mentioned you."

You pulled your mask up a little. "Was that his name? Ryuga?"

"No." He sighed. "That was just what we all called him."

"'You all' being the others at the funeral?"

"Yes."

You disliked him. You did not quite know why, exactly. If you had to identify what it could be, you would say it was the way he overennuncuated, like he was on stage. You knew it was unfair to him to make that sort of judgment based on something easily explained by English not being his first language, but whether intentional or not, the theatrics of it all rubbed you the wrong way.

He offered his hand to you. You looked up at him. "My name is Light Yagami." He smiled. "We were never introduced."

You gave him your name.

"So you are western." He laughed. "I was not sure."

"If you want to call it that, yeah."

"Can you tell me something?"

You wished he would leave. "Sure."

"Did he ever say things about us?"

"About his job, you mean. No, he didn't."

He hummed an acknowledgment. "How did you know to come to the funeral?"

"Letter." You swallowed. "Were you close to him?"

He considered the question. "Not as close as I would like," he conceded, "but sure.."

"Who was he going after?"

You heard the shifting of his clothes. "I don't understand your question."

"He said that he was going to die because someone powerful was going to kill him." Your fingernails dug into your palms. "Who was it?"

"Did he not tell you?"

"No," you snapped. "Please, I just want to know that much."

You finally looked up at him. He was staring.

"Can you not tell me?"

His eyes went to the gravestone. "He was an unusual man, wasn't he?" He smiled. "An amazing detective but so..." he struggled for the word. "Socially inept. Naive. Narrow-minded, short-sighted."

Your skin crawled. "What are you getting at?"

"Nothing in particular. But you have to admit, for someone so cautious, bringing his lover to his funeral was foolish of him."

You hated his smile. You wanted to rip it off. "It was a favor."

"Be that as it may." He reached forward, dragging his fingers along the smooth marker. "Did he even do so much as tell you who he suspected of us?"

You stared at him.

"He thought one of us was Kira," he explained nonchalantly, as one would talk about a scientific theory. "That's why he told you to wear the mask, I presume."

"You did it, didn't you?"

He laughed. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're the only other one here." A horrified grin crept across your face. "You killed him, didn't you?"

He did not shift his eyes away from the grave. "That's a strong accusation."

"It's not an accusation." You laughed, a strangled sort of sound. "You fucking did it."

He drew his hand away from the stone. "Did I?"

You grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to look at you. "You fucking brat."

"We're in a public cemetery." He was not comfortable, but he maintained eye contact. "You can't kill me here."

Your eyes watered. "He was a good man."

"You don't get it, do you?" Something like mirth slid into his voice. "You don't; you're his lover, of course, you don't."

You stood up, forcing him onto his knees. He made no effort to fight you. "What I get," you spat, "is that you killed him."

"You're acting as if it was a personal attack."

"You fucking killed him!" You laughed. "How do you suppose I act?"

"You could go to the police."

Your mind was reeling. "Your father? How stupid do you think I am?"

"Very." He smiled. "I know your name."

"And what does that have to do with anything?"

"If your mask came off, or if I looked your name up, I could find your face."

Your blood froze in your veins.

"Did your people ever hear about the Taylor case?" Even with your hand on his chin, he was smiling. "She was close to your boyfriend. After her husband died of a heart attack, she committed suicide. Do you know why that could be?"

You slammed his head against the gravestone.

He was bleeding, seemingly unconscious.

You considered killing him. You would be morally justified in doing so; nobody would blame you for killing him. He had killed someone dear to you; eye for an eye.

You hated yourself for not doing it.

You turned on your heel and ran.