A/N: I wrote this for a fandom gift exchange and liked the result so much I decided to share it here. Hat tip to Zenthisoror for the prompt!

"This room is yours, sir."

Light stepped past the dour concierge, peering through the newly opened doorway. Like the rest of the strange hotel, the room was cramped and colorless, lacking even a window to disrupt the monotony of the walls. The carpet was a dull, pale gray, and the room was unfurnished except for three sad-looking armchairs – one of which, to Light's surprise, was already occupied.

"You've made a mistake," he said. "This isn't mine. Someone's already in there, look."

"There's no mistake. This room is yours, sir."

"I'm not sharing with a stranger. That's absurd."

The concierge's expression never changed. "This is your room. Will you go inside now, sir, or will I have to call the manager in?"

"Call him. I'd like to file a complaint."

"Very well, sir. But I'm afraid you'll have to wait inside." Impatient, the concierge motioned toward the room. "If you please."

Light sighed and walked in. A moment later, the door slammed shut behind him. Annoyed, he turned back, intending to give the concierge another piece of his mind.

"Don't bother," said his roommate, amused. "You can't get out that way. It's locked."

Light tugged at the handle anyway, ramming the door twice with his shoulder before giving up. "So much for customer service."

The man shrugged. "Welcome to the Hotel California."

"Huh?"

"An old song. Never mind." He gestured at one of the empty chairs. "Come sit."

"I'm waiting for the manager."

"So am I. He's not coming anytime soon, you know. You might as well sit down."

Light complied, watching his roommate warily. The man looked to be around Light's age, though far more untidy, and his eyes bored just as intently into Light's. There was something familiar about him – a vague flicker of warning at the back of Light's mind – but the moment Light tried to pin the feeling down, it vanished. "I'm Light Yagami. And you are?"

"I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?"

"No."

"Of your own name?"

The man cocked his head, black hair falling across one eye. "What do you do for a living, Light?"

Light opened his mouth to answer and froze, confused. "I don't know."

"Are you married? A father? Single?"

"I'm not – I can't remember."

"Exactly. Memories work strangely here, when they work at all. When you've been here as long as I have, you'll figure that out."

"And how long is that?"

"I'm not sure."

Of course not. Disturbed, Light looked around the room. Three glass display cases on pedestals lined each wall, save for the side through which he'd entered the room, but only the ones behind himself and his roommate held anything of interest. The third set were as empty as the chair in front of them, waiting for something – or someone – to fill them up. There were no windows, no clocks, no possible metrics by which to mark the passage of time. In this place, it seemed, time had no value, or had simply stopped passing at all.

Oh, no.

"We're dead," Light said softly. "Aren't we?"

The nameless man nodded. "That was my theory as well, yes."

"So we're here forever, then? The two of us?"

"That seems the logical conclusion. Though given the extra chair and boxes that appeared when you did, I suspect we're still waiting on a third."

"Or more. If more things appear when the third arrives – "

"No. There's only three of us. I read that once, somewhere." The man raised a thumb to his lips, pensive. "I believe it was in a play."

Light raised an eyebrow. "That hardly sounds like a credible source."

"Perhaps not, but I remember it. That must mean something, here."

He remembers a play, but not his name? Light studied the man across from him like a textbook, taking in the dark hair, the rumpled t-shirt, the faded jeans. Another dim spark of recognition lit his brain, but once again, it failed to catch. "Don't sit like that."

The man blinked. "Like what?"

"That. With your legs crossed. It's wrong."

"You're sitting the same way."

"I know. But when you do it, it just looks…" Light trailed off, fully aware of how absurd he sounded. "I don't know. It's wrong, somehow."

The man looked down at himself, then up at Light, his dark eyes shrewd. "We've met before."

"We must have, yes. Which would explain why we wound up roommates."

"I have no memory of you."

"Nor I of you. But we used to, and we're supposed to figure it out. I'm certain of that." Light rose, walking over to the glass display cases behind his roommate's chair. "What are these?"

"Possessions, I think. Things I once owned. I looked them over when I got here, but – "

"But you still don't remember what they mean."

"Correct."

Light peered into the case nearest the door. "A pair of long chain handcuffs. Kinky."

The man shrugged, but his lips curved slightly. "I didn't ask for judgment."

"I'm not judging. I'd just hate to have lost the memories assorted with that one." Light studied the next cases. "A black notebook, and…huh. Looks like a computer in there."

"What a clever deduction."

"I wasn't talking to you. Just thinking out loud." He rattled the handle of the case and found it locked. Damn it. Annoyed, he punched the case instead, his fist blazing up in pain as the glass shattered. Damn it! With a yelp, he sank to his knees, cradling the injured hand to his chest.

"Out of curiosity," asked his roommate, droll, "what exactly did you expect to happen just then?"

"Shut up." Light examined his throbbing hand, startled to find it apparently whole. No blood. Either this is a dream, or I really am dead. Looking up, he saw that the glass had reformed around the computer, undamaged and sparkling clean. "It was worth a try."

"You could have asked if I had the key first."

Oh. "Do you?"

"Of course. As I said, I examined those objects when I first arrived here. They did nothing for my memory. I can't imagine they'd do anything for yours."

"We knew each other. We're supposed to learn something from these clues. I might have some insight – "

The man gave him a withering look, and Light gave up. He won't let me look at his things, but he can't stop me from looking at mine. If he had a key to his, then maybe… Light rummaged through his pockets and withdrew a small key from his suit coat. "Aha."

"You'd do better to leave well enough alone," the man said firmly. "My items didn't help me. I doubt yours will be any different."

"You may be right." Light tested his key in the lock on the computer display case, but it didn't fit. Hauling himself to his feet, he went over to his own boxes instead. "Let's see. A watch, a gun, and another black notebook. 'Death Note.' Odd." Light glanced back across the room, frowning. "The cover of yours is blank, but mine has writing."

"Strange."

"Indeed." There was something ominous about the notebook, just as there was about his roommate, but Light ignored it, opening the case with the watch first instead. I know this. I've seen it. I –

"Graduation," he blurted. "Dad gave me this watch as a gift, for getting into To-Oh. I was going to join the NPA, like him. I remember now."

"You were a detective?"

"I intended to be. I still can't remember if I succeeded." He turned the watch over in his hands, stroking it with his thumb before returning it to its case. "A detective. That might explain why I'm so determined to figure this out."

The man made a noncommittal noise, and Light turned his attention to the next case. "This is a service revolver. NPA."

"So you did become a detective."

"I did, but…this is weird. It's not mine."

"If it's in there, it must be yours. You just don't remember it."

"No. I'm certain. It's not mine." Light inspected it, frowning. "All the casings are empty. It's been fired."

"Perhaps you were attacked in the line of duty, and emptied your gun at your killer."

Annoyed, Light shook his head, returning the gun to its case. "It's not mine. How many times do I have to say it?"

"Why would it be in your case if it wasn't yours?"

"If I could remember that, I wouldn't be looking at these display cases, would I?"

Light started toward the last case, but his roommate's voice stopped him. "Not that one. Don't."

"Why not?"

"There's something wrong with it. I can tell. It feels wrong."

"That's not very convincing."

"It's the same thing you said about me sitting. I can't explain it, Light. I just know you should leave that notebook alone."

"It's the only chance I have to get my memories back."

"You've remembered enough. What does it matter now? You're dead. Remembering won't change anything." Concerned, the man gestured at Light's chair. "You're waiting for the manager, remember? He'll straighten everything out. Let's just talk until he gets here."

"Talk about what, exactly? The lives we don't remember? The view from the windows we don't have? We're dead, damn it. There's nothing we have left except the past." Wresting open the last display case, Light seized the notebook in both hands. An instant later, he collapsed screaming, his hands clutching the sides of his head.

It hurts, it hurts…

"Light?"

Panting, Light looked up. His roommate stood over him, dark eyes hard and grim – and for the first time, Light knew exactly who he was.

"You," he spat.

"Me," L agreed, extending a hand to help him up. "And you, it seems. You remember everything, don't you?"

Light nodded. "You had your memories the whole time."

"Yes. I simply thought, for both our sakes, it would be best if you didn't regain yours."

"Tch." He shoved L's hand aside and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the dizziness he still felt. "Even in death, you're a goddamn liar."

"I see losing hasn't improved your charming disposition any. Not that I expected it to." L sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Hell is other people."

"Huh?"

"Huis Clos. 'No Exit.' The play I mentioned earlier. Three people incapable of being happy in each others' company, trapped in a room together forever. In this case, you, myself, and – "

"Misa."

"Most likely, yes. The one person who could make us both more miserable than we already are."

Horrified, Light shook his head. "They can't do that."

"Apparently, they can. I told you once our fates were bound together, Light. It appears fate took me at my word."

"No. I can't accept that. I refuse." Light charged the door, frantic, flinging his whole body weight against the wood. "Let me out!"

"Don't be childish, Kira."

Light ignored him, hammering the door with his feet and fists. "Let me out, damn it! I know someone's listening! Let me out!"

All at once, L's arms were around him, dragging him back from the door. Light yelped in protest and lashed out, and L dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. "Light, stop that. Stop."

"Get away from me! Let me out!"

"If I could, I would. I've been attacking that door since I remembered who I was, Light. It won't budge."

"So this is it, then?" Light said bitterly. "You, me, and Misa, tormenting each other to madness. Forever."

"Well, there's one other option."

"Which is?"

"We could forgive each other and start again."

They stared at each other a moment, detective and killer, inscrutable as stones. Then they began to laugh.

"Us?" said Light, amused. "Not fucking likely."

"Not at all. But it doesn't hurt to be thorough."

"I guess not." Whatever now passed for Light's body ached from his futile assaults on the door, but he refused to let L see it. Returning to his chair, he seated himself with frigid dignity. "What do we do now?"

Hawk-like, L perched himself on his own chair, all traces of amusement gone. "Make each other suffer, I suppose."

"Good. I'd hate to suffer alone." Light leaned back and closed his eyes, the word forever echoing in his skull. Forever and ever… "Let's get on with it, then."