#tw latin

“A rose by any other name smells just as stalkery.” You smirked. “Serves you right for agreeing to it in the first place— what if he doesn’t show up? What’s your plan then, genius?”

“Shut up.” He leaned his cheek against his hand. “He’ll be here.”

“Sure, sure.” You closed your notebook. “I give up. Three hours of torture is enough, I think.”

He stirred his milkshake, pulling the straw out of the cup and stabbing the bottom of it. “You won’t get a degree if you flunk out.”

“I don’t need Latin to graduate.” You took another sip from your drink. “I don’t need Latin as a general— how come you don’t know how to cook soup but you know Latin?”

He considered the question. “I wanted to prove that I could learn it.” Another stab.

You sneered. “Then I suppose your rival knows some Latin too, then.”

Another glare.

“If you want me to stop knowing what you’re going to say, stop being so predictable.” You tried to will away your simper with little success. “You can’t blame me for having basic pattern recognition.”

He looked back at his milkshake, took another sip. “I was better at it than him,” he grumbled. “He was always shit at languages.”

You giggled. “I’m sure he was.” Your gaze fell upon the clock behind the counter, your expression souring. “We’ve been here for an hour,” you pointed out. “How long—“

“His arrival time has a two hour margin.” He picked up the glass, scraping the excess shake off the sides. “If Holiday-- his horse-- won, he’s going to be here an hour before closing time. If Holiday didn’t win, he’ll be here thirty minutes before closing because he’ll spend more time at the bar. If he gets into an argument at home— which happens once every week or so, especially on Saturdays because they’re supposed to be their date night— he’ll come here first for dinner before leaving to get drinks and will go to a fast food place instead.” He took another sip. “The diner closes in an hour, so if he doesn’t show up in another thirty minutes, we can leave.”

You stared at him, blinking slowly. “I see.” You ran your finger along the edge of your notebook. “And let’s say this guy— who, for the record, you know too much about— doesn’t conform to the schedule that you assigned him; what’s the next step?”

There was something more in his glare this time, a familiar edge. “What if the Moon crashes into Earth before he gets here? What if the floor opens up and we all die?” His eyes darkened, and you were reminded, much to your subconscious’ dismay, who it was that you were dating. “I didn't give up my childhood for nothing,” he said, conviction dripping like tar out of every pore. “I know what I’m doing. He’ll be here.”

You opened your mouth to answer, thought better of it. You focused on your glass.

He blinked, eyes widening as his face softened. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.” He laced his fingers together, twiddling his thumbs. “I have— this isn’t—“

“Don’t stress it.” You smiled weakly. “It’s late; we’re tired. I know you— well, that you aren’t going to do anything stupid.”

He nodded curtly. “Good. I’m glad.” He reached over, taking your hand and running his thumbs over your knuckles. His hands were shaking. “I’m stressed out is all; there’s a lot riding on this.”

“I know, baby.” You ran your free hand through his hair, bringing it to rest against his cheek. “You’re right; it’ll work out.”

He nodded again, slower this time. “I won’t make you regret what you’ve done for me,” he promised. “This will be good for the both of us.”

You brought his hands to your lips, kissing each. “You don’t need to keep telling me; I know you will.”

“Good.” He glanced at the counter, letting his hands fall to his lap. “I’m glad.”

“Good,” you agreed. “I'm glad you’re glad.”

He grinned. “I’m glad you’re glad I’m—“

The door made a jingle as someone entered the diner. The look on your boyfriend’s face told you who it was.

You were smart enough not to look behind you.

He grabbed his glass, turning his back to the man. “What’d I say?” He looked over at you, pride shining in his eyes. “Good day for Holiday.”

You looked down at your closed notebook, pretending to study it. “I suppose you were right.” You glanced in his direction. “What time can I expect to have you home?”

He considered it. “One at the latest,” he decided. “If I can’t make it home before then, I’ll call you.”

You nodded, slipping your book in your bag. “One it is.” You stood up. “Can I kiss you goodbye?”

He shifted the glass, trying to catch the man’s reflection. “He’s too shifty to risk it.” He glanced up at you. “But I’ll kiss you when I get home.”

Waiting was the worst part of dating Mathew.

The second worst thing was the fact that he wouldn’t tell you his real name (he had offered Mello as a substitute— which the two of you agreed was an objectively silly name— but he claimed Mathew was as close as he could give you, what with the times being what they were). The third was that he got himself into bad situations all the time, but the very worst were these agonizing waits between seeing him after the working day was over and Good Samaritan laws practically stopped being in effect. It could have been worse, you supposed— he could be late and stupid enough to get hurt— but it did not make the wait any less unbearably long. He always came back, and you knew he always would, but it was impossible not to assume the worst at twelve-fifty. Fifty-six, now.

‘This show sucks.’ You turned the television off, letting your eyes fall closed.

A knock at the door.

You shot up from your doze. Quickly, quietly, you slid off the couch onto your knees, groping under it before your hand found a cool, heavy piece of metal. Taking the bat in your hand, you approached the door. Stealing yourself, you glanced through the peephole.

Him.

You exhaled, unlocking the door. He was doubled over, breathing labored, glistening with sweat. You pulled him inside, relocking up as he tried unsuccessfully to compose himself. His eyes were trained on the bat. “You should let me buy you a piece,” he panted. “That’s… fuck… that’s not going to be helpful if…” He swallowed, laughing in exhaustion. You could see now that he had dried blood stuck to the side of his face. “If someone comes here, a bat’s not gonna help. I could’ve shot you through the door.”

You reached out, tilting his head up towards you to get a better look. They were ugly scratches; pale skin outlined angry red and pink flesh. You tried not to ask. “You need to disinfect these,” you mumbled. “You’ll get scars.”

He waved your hand away, standing up straight. “I’ll be fine,” he assured you. “The guy just scratched me is all.”

“Disgusting stuff is under fingernails.” You took his hand, leading him towards your bathroom. “You’ll thank me later.”

Grumbling, he let you drag him along, let you sit him down, let you bring harsh antiseptic to the gashes despite his protest. He watched you, mostly, fiddling with his fingernails while you fussed over him.

Finally, he spoke. “You haven’t asked me yet.”

You crumpled up his bandage’s wrapper. “Asked you what?”

“What I did.” He kept his eyes trained on you like it was an effort. “If I did it.”

You shrugged. “Not my business.” You tossed them out. “Are you complaining that I’m making myself a bad witness?”

“I guess.” He swallowed. “I’m in, I think. If they hold up their end of it.”

You leaned against your sink, facing him. “Do you get paid this time?”

“I should.”

You nodded absently. “Are you okay?”

Finally, he looked away. “Well enough. I—“ He paused, amending his statement. The cool light of the bathroom— you meant to get those changed— casted dark green shadows across his face. “Well, I thought I would be doing different horrible things, but I knew I’d– I mean to say, I’ve about come to terms with my going to hell if there is one, so.” He smiled shakily. “It doesn’t matter much to me which circle, so I’m alright.”

You nodded again.

“I’m sorry for being late.” He looked down at his nails, forcing his hands onto his thighs. “I mean, I know I wasn’t late, but I should have let you know I was taking longer than expected to come home. My phone died, and I didn’t want to be dropped off close to here.”

“You’re alright. I appreciate it, really.” You gave him a once over. “But you’re not coming to bed without a shower. And I’m not washing whoever’s blood that is out.”

He looked down at his shirt, realizing— seemingly for the first time— that he was spattered with blood. “I look like I killed someone,” he noted.

You shrugged. “Nobody here’s going to call the cops on you for having blood on your clothes.”

“Disturbing, but convenient.” He rolled his eyes. “One more failure to add to the list for the justice system.”

“I don’t know if it’s that.” You crossed your ankles. “I mean, yeah, but I think it’s got more to do with people thinking that there shouldn’t be capital punishment for people guilty of the crime of being kinda weird.”

“Being put to death for being strange,” he mused. “How biblical.”

“It’s not that either,” you stressed. “It’s just that the Kira fanboys started leaking police records so it’s a bigger dick move than it usually is to call the cops for stuff.”

He leaned onto his elbows, letting his head fall forward. “Again,” he sighed, “how biblical.”

“Old Testament justice,” you conceded. “I wonder if Kira’s a Christian.”

“It’s not likely.” He looked up at you, dull blonde hair sticking to his face. “He’s Japanese; most Japanese people aren’t Christian.”

“I guess.” He had a lot of theories about Kira. They were usually accurate, but their quantity brought you pause on occasion. “That’s funny. So is it just faith in the police, then?”

“That’s more likely.”

“Someone should shoot him.”

“If you’ll tell me where to aim, I’m more than happy to.”

You looked down at your tile floor. “You'll have to wait in line.”

“I know.” A pause, then, “I wonder how much his body would go for.”

“Whose, Kira’s?”

“Yeah.”

You considered it. “I’m sure loads of people would want his head for one reason or another. He better hope he doesn’t end up in prison; you’d be able to buy him and his stuff piecemail.”

“Like a celebrity.”

“Like a pope.”

“Like a god.”

You hummed. “Enough people deify him already; all he needs is a church.”

“Wouldn’t that be funny?” You struggled to pinpoint his expression. It was almost sadistic. “What an accomplishment that would be, to be the first person in recorded history to kill a god.”

You let your head fall back. You really hated that light. “You sound like a serial killer.”

“I feel like one.”

“What’s your plan after you catch him?” You looked back down at your boyfriend. He was shivering. “Will the two of you just call a truce?”

He took a deep breath. “Probably not.” He traced one of the tiles with his foot. “If someone as powerful as Kira showed up again, we’d probably fight over who could catch them too. Then another person after that, and another after that. Rinse and repeat until one of us dies.”

“How miserable.”

“Naturally.”

You loved your boyfriend. You loved most things about him. His passion, his drive, his energy— you could see yourself starting a proper life with him. You shared your life with him, anyway, and a part of you believed that one day he would too.

But there was one thing about him you could not stand.

He was ambitious. Too ambitious.