Warning: L/Mello

Stolen Dessert

I was eating lunch in the main hall of the orphanage, alternating between bites of chocolate and unexciting stew, when a giggle sank into the edge of my awareness. I turned to see a crowd of girls- there were probably no more than seven of them, although at the time I felt completely surrounded- shuffling around like a flock of seagulls before shoving one of their number forward. It took her far too long to spit out what she had to say, distracted as she was by the apparent hilarity of everything she looked at. Eventually, after I had been forced to clench my fists until my knuckles bulged, she managed to scrape together a summary of her opinions- which were that he was like my rock star.

This did not seem worth responding to, so I turned away, deeming the entire situation a waste of my time. Nevertheless, my ears picked up on "crush" and "L".

My chocolate supplies were taken away for a week after I punched the girl responsible for that particular remark, but it was worth it. Looking back however, I must admit that there was some truth to what they were saying. I did, after all, look up to him and aspire to his achievements in much the same way as those girls did to their pop stars. There is an element of spirituality to such adoration: the admired figures are demi-gods, and the mere possibility of their making a mistake is utterly scorned. It is impossible to keep your devotion private- it is too huge to keep contained; it gives you a thrill that makes you want to share it with the world. And although you aspire to be on their level, you know secretly that you never will. The fantasy, however, is shimmering and perfect and, like childish sweets, difficult to give up. All these are elements that the extravagant love of teenage girls for their boy bands shared with my own worshipping at my own shrine.

Despite all of this, the girl I hit was in fact quite wrong- the differences began with sexuality. I, of course, had no pictures of L, while the girls had posters and stickers and all sorts of cheap merchandise, covering their bedrooms like glittering wallpaper. I never imagined kissing him- how could I, with no images of him to hold in my mind?- while they made no secret of their fantasies, even referring to their idols as "my future husband". Even if I had wanted such a thing, I would never have dared voice it. I was too young, too mediocre; he had the world to choose from and would not choose me.

And then I met him.

My whole body was shaking, so I clenched my fists and pushed my shoulders back. I could not meet his eye, so I glared at the wall. My mouth was dry and my voice cracked, so I compensated by talking too forcefully and too loudly. I must have made a terrible first impression; he deserves admiration simply for the unfailing politeness he showed me on that day.

I spoke stiffly and formally at first, expecting an official interview, but he dressed and behaved so casually, even eating a slice of cake as he spoke to me, that I slowly allowed myself to relax. I told him that I was second in line but I was working very hard, I told him that I'd never come top, not once in my life, I told him that I'd worked for a whole fortnight to prepare for our last test- and then before I knew it I had told him everything and I was leaning forwards into his face with my hands splayed on the table between us and hot fury staining my cheeks.

He just looked back at me and I had to duck my head, already ashamed, feeling that I had sealed my fate- surely there was no hope for me now. I lowered my eyes, my gaze landing on the plate on his desk, and I watched his fingers toy with the fork before picking it up delicately and probing the surface of the icing; watched clean metal sink into one large glistening strawberry.

My eyes followed the path of the fruit up to his lips.

"Do you like chocolate cake?" he said at last.

I felt my mouth water. "Yes."

He got up all of a sudden. "Then come with me. But you will have to be quiet."

I followed him through the corridors, noting how his bare feet had become totally silent on the floorboards and how his shirt clung to his stooped shoulders. He was thin, I thought, but tough. I could tell that he was stronger than one would think.

I stopped when I realised where we were heading. "These are the private kitchens."

"I know. Is that a problem?"

I pushed my chin out. "No. I just don't have a key."

"I do."

Weird, I thought, back in his office with the thick, sweet taste and smell and texture of chocolate flooding my senses over and over while his eyes continued to watch me. That a grown man, and one so respected and feared, should sneak around almost guiltily and smuggle food with me- with me, not for me, as he too was eating greedily.

"What shall I tell them, do you think?" he asked, holding his fork to his mouth, prongs pressing just barely into pale flesh.

"Just tell them you were hungry or something. You own this place anyway."

"Yes," he said, "but I am not supposed to have a key to those rooms."

I blinked. "Why not?"

"Because I steal cake," he said calmly.

I stared at him in shock. He licked icing off the fork, slowly, thoughtfully, and then darted his eyes upwards to meet mine and smiled wickedly, just for an instant.

That night, I could hardly sleep. My head was brimming with images of L, his eyes, his hands, his mouth. He was such a contradiction that I barely knew what to think. All I can say is that the very next morning I went straight to the central office and demanded to see him again.

I grew, over time, to almost know him. He was not around very often, but I would corner him whenever he was and insisted on talking with him- not that he tried to avoid me. I cannot say whether he genuinely liked me, but he spent enough time with me that I practically didn't care. He would listen to everything I told him: not making comments, not offering advice, but simply providing his substantial, unfailing attention. I had never been listened to in quite the same way before, and I loved it- feeling like I was important, interesting and intelligent enough to deserve such notice; being able to talk without filtering my words. I would tell him about my studies, food, friends and enemies, my fears and my respect for him and all he had done. Then I would stop suddenly, becoming aware that I had talked for hours, and would urge him to speak instead and, hesitantly, as if the process were unfamiliar, he would tell me about himself. Nothing too personal- it was all solving cases and his favourite sweets- but each new piece of information, no matter how small or trivial, was precious as an eggcup of water in the desert.

All too soon, however, he would stop, and smile his sideways lip-curl of a half-smile, and inform me that today the kitchens had cheesecake, or strawberry shortcake or chocolate pudding, and we would sneak through the corridors, confidently avoiding the floorboards which creaked, him slightly ahead and me lagging behind with my eyes trailing along the creases of his shirt. Sometimes we would liberate too much for us to eat all at once, so he would wrap it in paper and divide it between us- never quite equally, but I didn't mind- and I would carry it in my pockets or down my shirt and stow it under my bed, where it would then grow stale and old. Cake didn't taste as good when he wasn't there to share it.

It was after some few months of this that he arrived at the orphanage a few hours after I had again come second on an important test. I had been hoping to surprise him by finally placing first, by refusing to talk to start with but to sit in silence for as long as possible and then at last to mention it, casually, off-hand. How perfect that would have been. Instead I surprised him by already being in his rooms rather than waiting for him to arrive and let me in, by being furious and inconsolable, by flinging myself at him and sobbing angrily in his lap for far too long.

It was the first time I had touched him, and his arms around me were hesitant.

By the time I again became aware of my surroundings, with my breathing beginning to calm and my face to dry, it had gone dark outside. I had stayed up into the small hours the night before, attempting to fill my head with as much information as possible, and I was left utterly exhausted from effort and tears, my body growing heavy against L's.

I caught my breath and gulped as I lifted my head off from his chest and looked into his face. "Sorry," I muttered. "Your shirt's wet."

"Come on," he said, and he snaked an arm under my legs and lifted me easily into the air. For a split second, clinging to his neck, I was delighted: he was indeed strong despite his build, another thing I had guessed correctly about him.

I leaned my head against his shoulder as he carried me upstairs, enjoying the sensation of his breathing skimming across the top of my head and of the lulling motion of his feet on the stairs sending tiny jolts up my body. I slid one hand up his neck and into his hair and his step faltered, but he said nothing and merely resumed his steady pace after the briefest of pauses.

When he reached the door of my room he made to put me down, but I tightened my grip on him and shook my head. Normally I would have been too proud to cling to him in such a dependent manner, but this was him. He already knew all of my weaknesses.

"I need you to open the door, in that case," he said, still so patient, still so calm.

Reluctantly, I did so; I had been hoping for him to take the hint and just hold me for a little longer. He stepped into my room with confidence, and despite the darkness was able to navigate his way around the furniture with ease. He set me down on the bed and released my legs, leaving his hand splayed on my back for a second- but then he let go and began to straighten up.

I reached out in the darkness and found his collar, felt along the material to smooth skin, his neck, his chin, moved my hand up over his face to the back of his head, pulled him down and kissed him.

I had been aiming for his cheek, I think- it is difficult to be sure of my own intentions, and my thoughts were hardly rational- but when I landed on his lips my only thought was that this worked for me as well. He tasted of tea and stolen desserts, and before I knew it I had wound my arms around his shoulders and was leaning up into the kiss with my whole body, opening my mouth against his, tilting my head and stretching my neck in order to get as close as possible. He did not move and his lips were tense against mine, but stopping was not an option, not any more. I did not wonder what he was thinking, how he felt about this. All I could think was that oh my god I'm doing this, I'm kissing him, I'm kissing L and please, god, please don't let it end.

I slid my hands down from his shoulders across his chest and then to his waist, where I gripped him and tugged sharply so that he had to step forwards to balance himself. I turned my body around to face him more fully, briefly debated over whether or not to pull him down onto the bed with me, and settled on hooking my ankles around the backs of his knees. I could hear my own voice as if emanating from a cavern, not talking but simply making small, desperate noises.

I pulled away for a tiny moment, so that I could suck in a breath before returning to his mouth, but in that instant, as if he had suddenly regained control of his body, he gripped me by the shoulders and pushed me away, not forcing me to move across the bed but simply bending me uncomfortably backwards.

Oh, I thought. Nothing else. I would not even tell whether he was angry or about to start kissing me back.

As it turned out, he was neither. "What," he said as if I had just said something that interested him, "did you mean by that?" His eyes on me, before so welcome and an attention to be bathed in, were now unbearable, his blank shuttered stare worse than any emotion he might have shown. I did not dare look away.

"I… kissed you," I said, still partially unable to believe it myself.

"Yes, I know what a kiss is."

"Then what is there to- Look, can we close the door?"

"Why?"

"Because it would be… bad… for people to hear our conversation."

He looked at me. I knew that the request was a lot more of a complex issue to him than to me. I would never understand all the layers of meaning he saw in everything; to me it was simply a matter of wanting to keep private issues private.

"No," he said eventually, "we will be leaving it open. If you wish not to be heard you may lower your voice. Now, what did you mean by kissing me?"

I squirmed with angry shame. As if being quizzed about my sexuality wasn't enough, he had apparently not realised that he needed to be quiet as well. Perhaps the best strategy was to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible, while the corridor was still deserted. It would be full of kids heading to bed before very long.

"I… just wanted to," I muttered. "I like you- I'm attracted to you."

He released my shoulders and bit one thumbnail carefully. "I did not know that."

I realised later that he was in all likelihood lying, and had probably wanted to force me to admit it out loud. I had hardly been subtle about it, after all- how could L of all people fail to pick up on it? At that moment however, I was tired and nervous and still breathing heavily from the kiss, and the thought did not occur to me. "Well I am. I've always said how much I like you."

"Yes," he said narrowing his eyes, "but not in a sexual way."

"It… might have taken me a while to realise it," I mumbled.

"Hmm."

I raised my head, catching his eye, feeling my chest begin to tighten. "So what do you think?"

"Many things."

I glared. His habit of misunderstanding, whether intentional or not, had never been more frustrating. "I meant about this."

His expression did not alter. "My statement still applies."

Clearly he either did not understand or was simply not interested. I was not sure what I had been expecting- it was not as if he had showed signs of his sexuality- but I could feel my shoulders slump. Another failure in spite of my every effort, another disappointment to add to that day's tally. "All right," I said heavily. I bent my knees up on the bed, swung myself around and got up, crossing the room to my wardrobe. "I'm going to bed," I said. "Can you go?"

I turned around to find him still standing there by the bed, unmoving. "Are you really attracted to me?" he said.

"Of course I am," I snapped. "I told you. Go away, I'm getting changed."

"But you are young."

"I told you to leave. And I'm not that young. People my age are getting drunk and having sex."

"Hmm."

I gave up and began to unfasten my belt.

All of a sudden he was there behind me. I froze, and my hands loosened.

"What are you doing?" he said.

I had to fight to keep my voice steady. "Getting ready for bed."

"Ah," he said. He stepped backwards. "My apologies. I had not realised."

L closed the door and sat on the bed in his habitual foetal position, facing away from me as I changed. "I think," he said after a short pause, "that you fail to understand the position you have put me in."

I stopped what I had been doing, which was to stare at my wardrobe considering which clothes to wear to bed- normally I would just wear underwear, but something told me that it wouldn't be a good idea in this case- and looked over my shoulder at him. I could only make out the shape of his back and head. "No," I said, "I understand. You're worried people will think you're perverted or lock you up or something. It's not like I'm going to tell anyone about this, you know."

"As I thought. You do not understand."

"What do you mean?" I said, tugging on a t-shirt over my shorts. "I'm young, right- isn't that the problem?"

He chuckled a little, and even the sound of it turned my spine into syrup. "Do you really think I live in fear of the law?"

It was a good point, one that I hadn't considered.

I flung my clothes into the back of the wardrobe, kicked it shut and dropped onto the bed with my back to him. "All right, so what is it then?"

"The situation is that I am not sure what I should do."

I raised my eyebrows.

Before I could react he had turned around and taken hold of my chin, tilting my head back to look straight into his eyes, palely visible in the faint glow from the window. His fingers were cold and his face so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my lips.

"What do you want me to do?" he said, his voice quiet and impenetrable as the darkness.

I licked my lips. "Kiss me," I said.

And there, in the shadows of my bedroom with hoards of cake fermenting beneath the bed we sat on, he held my face in his hands and his skin was like parchment as we kissed.

And that was the way it was. He still visited infrequently, I still forced my way into his rooms and talked with him for hours, we still shared ice creams and cakes, and I still poured all of my efforts and failures into his lap like an offering. The only difference was that I would also ask him to kiss me. He was hesitant at first, far too much so for my liking; he would sometimes only kiss my forehead and my cheeks, and he was generally reluctant to touch me. I would have to encourage him, pressing up against his body, taking hold of his wrists and placing his hands on my waist, ordering him to open his mouth.

God only knows what he was thinking.

I learned of the Kira case relatively early on; he did not tell me about it- he would only inform me about cases he had already solved- but we were kept abreast of such things by the orphanage. As soon as I found out about it, I knew he would be involved, and I scoured the newspapers and internet for as much information as possible, even visiting disgusting "fan" websites and hoax pages in the vain hope of learning something. I suppose I wanted to be able to help L, or maybe just to find out where he was, what he was doing in the investigation. I watched the footage of Lind L Tailor dying on live television before the film began to be circulated among the population. I was one of only a handful of people to see and decipher Kira's taunting suicide note messages. I was one of the first to hear that FBI investigators had been tailing suspects, and when they were killed I was one of the first to hear the rumours. I was not sure whether or not to believe them, but I remember vividly that it was the first time that I felt fear over a criminal case. It had not occurred to me before then that Kira would be willing to kill innocent people.

A few days after that, L visited for the last time. When I heard that he was coming, I had immediately decided to buy him a gift, and naturally the best gifts were chocolates. He seemed surprised when I presented them to him, but nevertheless worked his way through the entire box.

"I'm going to Japan," he said thickly around a wedge of caramel.

"Kira?"

He tipped paper wrappers off the desk. "That's right. How much do you know about the case?"

I smirked. "I know that death gods only eat apples."

"I didn't know those files were accessible," he said mildly.

"They are to Roger."

He caught my eye, and then smiled a little. "Very good."

I grinned.

"I might not come back here for a while," he said after a short silence.

I had expected this, but I could not hide the energy that drained out of me. "How long is a while?"

"As long as it takes."

I ought to have seen that coming as well. I stuck out my lower lip in a pout, half-joking, half-serious. "Don't you care about me?"

His eyes went round and he tilted his head to one side. On anyone else it would have looked like a pathetic attempt to seem appealing. "You ought to know by now that what happens to you is of concern."

It was a strange way of putting it, and I was not comforted. "But Kira deserves more attention- is that it?"

L frowned. "It is not that he deserves more attention, but rather a case of concentrating on the highest priority."

It was like being hit in the stomach with a cannonball. "What?"

He stared back at me. "The case needs to be solved. All of this is somewhat unnecessary- you understand that."

I understood. I felt like punching him, felt like overturning the table and screaming. With that one casual, offhand remark, he had taken every single one of my fragile hopes and crushed them into the floor- and what was more, he didn't even seem to realise. It was not that I expected him to put me first- I wanted him to, of course, but would never voice it, as it was so selfish that even I was ashamed- but rather that had always known that he did not. All this time I had tried to fool myself, suppress my doubts, tell myself that he cared for me and wanted me the same way I did him; and now here he was, looking me in the eye and confirming my every suspicion with horrible honesty. He was not worried about being caught; he had simply not wanted to kiss me. All along he had merely been trying to placate me. He had so little experience and so little comprehension of normal human relationships that he had decided that going along with what I wanted would make me happy, like a weak parent indulging their child. It was no different from helping me steal cake from the kitchen.

I felt long spider-fingers on my chin and cheeks, and I jolted backwards, swatting them away. "Don't touch me!"

"I'm sorry," he said, taking back his hand and resting it on his knee. "I thought you wanted to-"

"I know what you thought," I snapped.

He leaned forwards, peering at my face as it were nothing more than an interesting slideshow. "I was of the opinion that I have never treated you with anything other than kindness and respect."

"I know that too," I said. Before I could stop it, the hot angry tear that had been tickling my eyelids swelled and overflowed down the side of my nose.

He sat back. His eyes were slightly wider than normal, but other than that he did not react. "I am sorry if you feel that-"

"Just be quiet," I snarled.

He was silent. This time I did not clutch at him, or sit in his lap while I sobbed. This time I sat awkwardly in front of him, fists tight in my lap, and my tears were choked back in my throat, and soaked nobody's shirt but my own.

"You knew that I would make this decision," L said many minutes later, when I was sitting with my back against the door, legs spread out in front of me, head tilted listlessly back.

"And you knew I liked you from the start," I said, not really interested in banter but answering back all the same.

"Yes," he said, "so I suppose we're both liars."

"The difference being that you lied to me and I lied to myself."

He turned his head to look me directly in the eye. "How profound."

I scoffed, just a little. "Yeah, isn't it? Now all I need to do is kill a few people and I might be someone worth spending time on."

"I do not-"

"I know, I know…"

I heaved myself to my feet and began to walk over towards him, my hands in my pockets. "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

So he had left me no time to get used to the idea of his departure. It did not hurt. It was simply another dull blow to my mind, like a hammer striking a cushion. "I guess I should say goodbye then."

He narrowed one eye a little. "Was that not the purpose of the chocolates?"

I had almost forgotten. I glanced down at the empty tray as I continued to approach, taking small steady steps. "Oh. No. Those were just a present."

His lips curled up at the corners, a proper smile. "They reminded me of kissing you."

It made me want to burst into tears all over again.

"I'm sorry," he said. It was the second apology he had given me that day: uncharacteristic humility on his part.

"Why's that?" I muttered, depositing myself in the chair on the opposite side of his desk.

"I may have made a mistake."

I could no longer summon the energy to ask him to expand on this explanation, but for once he continued without being asked.

"Tell me, would you rather I had never kissed you?"

So that was it.

I leaned my head against the back of the chair and stared up at the ceiling. "I don't know," I answered honestly. "I wasn't thinking straight that day, I could have reacted really badly if you hadn't. But then it would have been so much less complicated. Maybe there's a reason you didn't want to do it. Who knows, maybe I'm scarred for life now. But you don't need to apologise. I probably didn't leave you much choice."

"No," he said firmly. "I had a choice."

What a very typical thing for him to say. I smiled despite myself.

"To start with," I said, "I thought I loved you."

"Yes."

My eyes stung and I wiped them furiously with the heel of my hand. If there was one thing I was unwilling to do in front of him at that moment, it was to cry again.

The chair scraped loudly backwards as I got to my feet and glowered at him through the watery veil of newly conceived tears. "Is there anything you need to get done tonight?"

"No."

"Then come to my room and kiss me, goddammit."

It was all right, I thought, sinking down onto my bed and pulling him close. Nothing had changed. He wanted to make me happy, after all, and what would make me happy was him. Maybe this would work. Maybe we could pretend forever. Maybe, as I closed my eyes and wound my fingers into his hair, as I felt his lips on my forehead, my mouth, my throat, my collarbone, I could tell myself that this was all I wanted.

When I opened my eyes the next day and found that he had gone- felt my eyes burn from the shard of sunlight that glared through the curtains left gaping open; saw my clothes folded unevenly on the chair and the bar of chocolate placed on top of them, a final effort to appease me- I resolved never to cry for him again.

Author's notes: I suppose it was inevitable that I would pair together my favourite characters of the series. Maybe at some point I'll write something a little less bittersweet for them, but for now I quite like this.