Title: "Don't Be"
Pairing: L/Kira/L
Rating: Worksafe
Warnings: Um, em-dash abuse; unbeta'd-ness?
Summary: Kira doesn't understand L's purity.
A/N: I had tried writing this over a year ago, but it only seemed to work today.
Disclaimer: Death Note is... disclaimed.
.
"Don't Be"
.
.
L's picking up that pack of Swiss Rolls by the register, elbow arched ridiculously as if he were some sort of human crane, and there's that feeling. Kira—he feels so jealous, jealous, jealous, but he doesn't know why—something that probably bothers him more than the actual feeling (and that's wrong, too).
"Yagami-kun."
The halogen lights, the beer-filled refrigerators on the back wall—it's so kitschy and real and there, and he feels intensely displaced; it horrifies him that it feels exactly like home. He'd never admit his discomfort, though—
Because that's not allowed, is it?
"If you're thinking I brought you here merely to investigate you, you'd be mistaken."
He doesn't understand—there's no reason to be there; being there makes no sense. So he asks cryptically, masking his confusion—straightforwardness had left him since he became God—and L turns around. The wheels of the metal cart whining, L brandishes generic gummy bears and says that it's 'fun,' but he still can't understand and not knowing is eating him alive.
"What do you consider fun?"
A receipt being printed, the metallic shing of the cash register drawer. Faceless strangers leave—the only proof that they were ever there the ringing of convenience store bells and the draft that cools the front of the store, makes him shiver. He hates them—'stupid, stupid sheep'—but wants to be them so badly.
He doesn't know, and he knows he should—he could brainstorm millions of plausible pastimes for his age group, but that doesn't seem right when L's looking at him like that—as if he knows what's racing through his head and understands on some intimate, animal level—
"…I apologize, that was an inconsiderate question."
"What do you mean?" The words make it to his mouth too fast, too easily—'What would it feel like to be speechless? Is it nice?'—and he makes himself sound quizzical, affected like usual.
It puts a bad taste in his mouth.
It's different—unsettling, L's demeanor; he's not measuring the words—he's holding them back. It's not hard to see—hesitance tends to stick out on a person like that. L averts his eyes, turns his back—Kira wants to scream how foolish he is—and considers the candy bars, crouching.
The voice is soft, too soft. Maybe it's because L never faces away—
"Do you feel sad?"
It's the question of a child, and it would be comical if it didn't hit home so hard. He wants to say "No"—leave the topic to disintegrate on the floor with the gum spots and dismiss him like he's always managed to do—because L's so childish, and he doesn't want to give him matches to play with—
But why? Why, why, why can't he lie to that child? Like Sayu—so genuine, he paws through the different brands of chocolate. How can L still have that purity like her—there's blood on his hands; can't he see it? 'Like I can see mine?'
He's so jealous, so jealous—he chokes on his honesty, but it still comes out.
"I… I don't know."
Kira's glad that L's back is turned for this display of insecurity—realizing belatedly that L probably had done so for this exact reason, giving him respectful space out of some wildly unorthodox sense of politesse—
The purchases are bagged—the plastic sags and rustles with a disgusting amalgamate of sweets and over-processed foods. They're standing in that same doorway now, faceless strangers to those other poor fools in the store, and L says he's sorry.
Kira doesn't know why L said that, or why he felt a little better at those—'empty'—words. He doesn't understand, so he just says—
"Don't be."