There was this one great day in class where a friend randomly started showing me slash stories/sensual love stories she was writing. (They were awesome, by the by.) So I wrote her some Death Note slash. This is it.
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"Why is this necessary," says Light, when they are alone. He jingles the handcuffs then holds them up so L can see. It is not a question; it is demand with a sharp exclamation behind its curving question mark. L knows that if he answers too carelessly, there will be blood.
They're on the bed, pretending to rest. Light is sitting; L crouches with his knees up to his chest and his toes hiding shyly in their soft satin sheets. Their expressions are placid, but the air is electrically charged.
There's no way for either of them to leave without the other's knowledge. The room is only so large. The entrance is singular. Both of them know this. The handcuffs, therefore, are redundant.
L looks up and licks his thumb. He's methodical. There's salt on his tongue when he takes it away – human sweat, his.
He'd said before, you could kill me when I'm not looking – you could kill others when my back is turned. And this was enough for the investigative team, because they believe everything he says. They are only stupid sheep with guns and badges. But Light, Light is a coyote. He sneaks in, he eats up the animals when no one is looking. L's sure of this.
And Light will need a better explanation.
His head dances with ideas, little flurries of excuse. Because of this, because it keeps this radius, because I must … but he decides to tell the truth. Just this time.
With all the precision and patience of a snake charmer, he reaches out and slips his wrist down the length of the chain. The little rings rub against his forearm, cold and catching, sculpted like round, smooth snail-shells. He twists his arm so the chain locks around it. The links indent his flesh.
Light looks at him, inexplicably smug. L yanks.
And Light jerks backwards with a little yelp. That pleased expression torn off his face. His skull knocks against L's knees.
Casual, L leans down and positions his face precisely over Light's.
He kisses him, and the boy tastes not of salt but of bitter mint. L likes sweet things, but this is nice; it is soft and warm and beautiful.
"Because of this," he says, and licks Light's ear. "And this." His neck." "And this." And everywhere, and Light makes these small noises that make it so easy to forget the infrared camera staring from the corner of the room and so hard to remember the fact that Light is probably Kira. L forgets. He takes what he wants. For the price of objectivity, he pretends he's more than an idiot lamb meandering towards the hunter's teeth.