“I’m the queen of death,” Amane tells her, standing there in her kitten heels and her negligee and all the shallow little glory that she owns.

“No,” Kiyomi tells her, as she leans in the doorframe, swathed in satin and chanel no. five, “you’re wasted.”

Misa frowns at her, tripping over her own feet, the champagne bottle clinking against her nails. “You’re not Light.”

“Neither are you.”

It’d taken Kiyomi two hours to get ready, twenty six minutes to ride the train over, and less than ten seconds to realize that she’d been stood up. She should have known from the first. Promises, promises, but courting Light Yagami is like trying to fuck a ghost.

Instead he’d presented her with his leavings, drunk and bare in places, hips round and lips pouted, a softness that doesn’t know what to do with itself. She’s not the ideal, Kiyomi decides, but she’ll do.

And maybe on a different night she’d need some charm and some conjured sweetness and whole lot of time, but Amane is jittery and alone and she’s out of her underwear within in moments of the suggestion, laughing and swearing that Kiyomi looks “pasty in that color” and getting lipstick stains all down her neck. It’s a lot of wriggling and a warmth that devours, sinking into the places that demand to be sunk into.

It’s either very late night or very early morning when Light comes home, stopping in the bedroom doorway with his jacket half off. Misa is snoring but her hair is clean because Kiyomi had held it back, and they are lying with their arms hooked together.

Light just shrugs after a moment of Kiyomi staring him down, slips his jacket back on, and murmurs, “Better you than me.”

He turns the light off when he goes because Amane will be thankful for that when she wakes, and by now he probably knows it.