L x Light

L knows how Kira kills now, and even through his general state of melancholy
this causes him certain undeniable satisfaction. What’s more, he understands
that Light can’t kill right now. Unless there’s another element involved,
Light cannot kill without the notebook.

L is almost entirely sure that Light cannot kill in this state, either
– a transformation really had occurred with the destruction of the books.

He helps Light brush his teeth and wash his face and his hair, he helps
him change his clothes and clip his toenails, all the while fully aware
of the thought that Light saved him, he saved him deliberately.
This subtle gesture of unavoidable concern runs through his skin electric
with charge and light, and with all the gentleness inherent to his fragile
person he tends to the younger boy, who may be thinking a great deal but
reveals nothing.

Before they lie down to sleep, L offers him water again, and Light drinks
silently and obediently, but no more than half the glass. He does so not
so much with compliance as indifference, however, and L speculates he may
waste away before long.

He has stopped trying to make conversation with Light; he has stopped
urging him to visit his family or to eat. He just lets him be now and turns
to face the wall, staring out into the darkness until his eyes become enough
accustomed to make out the outline of furniture in the room, and then he
sits up in bed and begins to stand when he feels a tug on the sleeve of
his cotton shirt.

Startled, he turns his head to meet Light’s gaze.

“Don’t go,” the boy mumbles, thin fingers closed feebly around the fabric.

L does not reply. He stares back in the darkness for a long time.

They don’t speak.

When L draws closer, Light does not back away, and he does not resist
when the wet pressure of lips comes upon him. Then comes the insistence
of palms on L’s slender back, urging him closer, and suddenly Light is
holding him with every remainder of strength in his thin body.

L remains silent and deep in thought, and even as Light presses feverishly
against him he cannot deny that yes, he does like this. Light’s
fingers trail curiously along the edges of L’s lips, and L accepts, allowing
him inside and allowing him to lick slowly at the corner of his mouth.

Tormented by agony and aggravation, Light moves against him, disturbed
and desperate and unmistakably hard, and very gently L pulls away, murmuring
that it isn’t a good idea and Light is practically emaciated and shouldn’t
exert himself.

But he can’t deny that, somewhere in his mind, he wants this just as
badly, and it’s all he can do to prevent himself from drowning his own
frustration in Light.

“S…sorry,” Light murmurs quietly, and indeed he is too exhausted even
to slide away from L. Soon he is motionless but for the low hissing of
expiration, feathery and moist just above the ripples of cotton at L’s
shoulder.

L’s black eyes are wide and expressionless in the darkness as he wonders
what is to be done about the boy in his arms.

There is something Light said earlier that has troubled L ever since—

Find it before I do.

Find what? Clearly this means if Light finds whatever it is, there will
be danger.

Then this isn’t over.

Even if Light no longer remembers these words, he is right in insisting
he shouldn’t be released.

Behind expressionless black eyes there really is pity now.

L lowers his chin against Light’s head. His hair is still moist and
falls in a gentle cascade against L’s shirt, scattering on the fabric and
wetting him. When L brushes his lips against the shell of his ear, Light’s
fingers tighten against the sheet, weak and tremulous and grasping ever
so slightly at the mattress. He has gone so bony and pale that L seriously
begins to consider having him treated with an IV.

Am I allowing my personal gratitude to take precedence over safety?

While Light was previously awaiting the death penalty, the events that
transpired thereafter lead to a change in L’s thoughts as he truly came
to understand that the root of the problem lay not in Light, himself, but
rather in whatever supernatural powers are associated with death gods.

Light’s breath issues forth warm and shallow, his eyelashes clinging
together in thin, damp bunches—and he’s the only friend L has ever had.

 

 

To be continued…