Mmmyep. Maximum offense was meant by this.
I made L angst. Yes.
This may or may not have more to it. And I haven't written any more doughboyfic because school is killing me. Perhaps even my soul. I can only stay up late and write ONESHOT crap like this :D Anywho. Enjoy.
When the sweets did nothing for him anymore, L knew things were a lot worse than he had anticipated.
Perhaps, and this was a likely possibility, the situation had been getting progressively worse for a while, and the decline had been so subtle, not even he had been aware of it. It was doubtful it could have ever been satisfactory, but that wasn't to say one couldn't hope for a better outcome.
The ineffectiveness of sugar finally hammered in this eventual realization, and L regarded it with an air of slight bereavement; his one indulgence -and he would even go as far to say his comfort, was now gone. One couldn't help but feel mildly miserable about this, at the same time considering it justified in current situation.
He had ran out of time, and even though he knew it was inevitable, the detective couldn't help but feel somewhat disappointed with himself. How often had he analyzed every minute detail of the case? Of his actions? Had he missed something, or maybe if he handled something differently, the result would be different? There were no obvious faults, but that didn't mean there weren't any. L was aware that he was susceptible to errors as much as anyone. No, everyone had the capability of making mistakes. Ensuring one didn't had to be learned, perfected with constant practice.
Had he made a mistake?
At the time, everything had seemed so thought out. No, he was certain; he had scrutinized any potential problems that he could consider, and then devised strategies on how to conquer each one. Even those that had would have been deemed too unlikely. But had he really been that thorough? Had he been playing into Kira's -Light's- hands all along, under the illusion of being the victor?
It was a possibility.
It wasn't an ideal one, quite the opposite really. To think he, L, had been so naïve all this time…was most unpleasant to think about. But such things required conscious thought, and so it had to be tolerated.
There really wasn't any time left.
Thinking about it, which he often did, L wondered whether his own demise had been taken into account all along. The task had carried that risk from the start, so of course it had to be planned for, just like every other probable event. But…did he reallybelieve it would happen? If he was honest with himself, the chances of that actually happening were less than fifteen, no, ten percent.
It had been enough in the end.
L sighed for himself, as he found himself doing a lot these days. His mind felt far too heavy, his own eventual end a constant undercurrent, which was probably understandable. Still, it couldn't be helped, not now anyway. Not even he could decide when this sudden acceptance occurred; it worried him about the significant lack of fear he felt about the situation. The urgency was there, the sense of failure too -that would not be so sympathetic and leave him alone.
L found himself viewing the whole unavoidable mess rather welcoming. Was that wrong?
Yes.
The answer changed constantly, but no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, the feeling of release would snake to the surface again and again.
No.
He was so tired. Knowingly fighting a losing battle…perhaps he'd already lost…perhaps he'd lost before even trying seeing as success would never have been his. Was that reason for being so apathetic towards his own ultimate death? Had he always been subconsciously aware he couldn't win this, walk away alive?
I couldn't have predicted this…the percentage before…was satisfactory enough to…allow me to reveal my face. The situation changed. I couldn't have predicted that.
But if I had been more cautious…
No, the NPA would have abandoned me altogether if I hadn't shown them some form of trust. They have been helpful…
Will it hurt?
L had tried to imagine it, what a cardiac arrest would feel like. He tried to imagine how it would feel when his heart would stop beating, blood circulation ceasing immediately. The thought of blood lying still in his body, congealing, coagulating…was terrifying. He probably wouldn't be aware of this anyway, the lack of oxygen to his brain would render him unconscious anyway. Cerebral hypoxia. He had researched it. L had also watched the surveillance tapes, observed Kira's victims as their breathing became erratic, mouths gasping like fish out of water.
Agonal respiration: characterized by shallow, abnormal breathing. Irregular, sharp intakes of air, followed by uneven pauses. Other features included involuntary muscle spasms and strange vocalizations.
The identical contorted expression, as they writhed in agony, was haunting. There was nothing anyone could do for them.
L knew, witnessed the deaths of hundreds of Kira's "criminals", who had been killed at the hands of his perverse sense of justice. L had observed them, but had never been able to comprehend how they felt at all. No one could.
Who knows if I'm already being controlled.
The thought had crossed his mind countless times, although he wasn't as nearly worried as he imagined he would be. Did this mean L really had given up? He didn't want to see it as that, he would fight Kira to the very end. After all, it would only be a hollow victory for the murderer if L just willingly submitted, and the detective aimed to die as he had lived; stubbornly and if at all possible, full of sugar.
I have won though really…haven't I?
Kira will be caught. Even if it wasn't by me, which would have been the ideal result, he will still be brought to justice.
It's a shame though.
That it isn't going to be my victory.
L was relieved he had eventually agreed to taking the handcuffs off. No one else had to see this but him. His own expression of failure. It was openly admitting he had lost. That was fine, everyone had to admit defeat eventually.
This had a 96 percent chance of hurting. There was seven percent chance of him hitting an artery and bleeding to death, which wasn't an ideal situation at any rate. The estimation would have been higher had L's knowledge of anatomy been any less superior. It was a small consolation. Accidentally killing himself, while faced with such a fate at the hands of Kira, would have been tragically ironic. Cheating, perhaps. That would have been quite rude to deny Kira -Light- of his momentary victory. To have an achievement so close, and then have it snatched away as your fingers brushed it…would be horrible.
L supposed that could sum up his current predicament quite nicely.
A box of razor blade refills lay unopened next to the detective, managing to emit a feeling of overly cliché despair, despite being inanimate objects. However, they had been a good find; it would make this whole ordeal easier overall. L had debated for a long while, crouched over them after searching the bathroom cabinets, whether it was right to take them without asking permission. That was stealing, wasn't it? But…he could hardly ask to use them. That would mean revealing their purpose. He would rather no one found out about this. Not draw unnecessary attention to himself, and show everyone he'd lost.
Considering who the blades belonged to, it added the air of a corny, B-grade movie to the entire event. Things like this only everhappened in low budget, poorly written films, never in real life. That's why it always seemed so hard to believe and over-the-top dramatic.
Light wouldn't miss one, surely? Although, the box was unopened. That was something to deal with later. To use something that wasn't even opened yet…made L feel guilty. Somehow, he'd make it up to the teenager. Did he like chocolate coated peanuts? Maybe he had an allergy, and would have a reaction and perhaps die. That wouldn't be too good. Yagami-san would definitely be upset about the death of his son. Maybe they'd even blame L, due to his suspicions -of course they were more than that- of Light being Kira. They'd say he had done it on purpose.
He'd find a way to make up for it.
Try to open the unopened packet as quietly as possible. Not that there was any way the sound would be heard; the building was far too vast in size. Dexterous hands peeled away the card backing carefully, delicately, and it was laid aside. L shifted his weight on the bed for a better position. It was hard to crouch on a mattress, which was more susceptible to the frequent movements of trying to keep balance. So instead, he sank to his knees, drawing them up to his chest, in an introverted manner. He wrapped one arm around them, as if subconsciously comforting himself, protecting and soothing. Who else was going to?
L selected one of the blades, the calculating, concentrating expression on his face unchanged. Considering at how spontaneous and without self-control this was always portrayed as being, the detective viewed it as he viewed everything; with a distant, almost fascinated gaze and constantly assessing the statistics. The shard of metal was grasped feebly between thumb and forefinger, with the appearance touching it might somehow contaminate him. Or bite him.
He now held it firmly, submersed in a strange sense of calm, as the need for undivided attention rose. All the while, this felt alarmingly contradictory to whatever beliefs L assumed he had; beliefs that were now looking quite uncertain. That couldn't be helped.
No…he couldn't think about this. For once, he couldn't allow himself to analyze his actions. That would accomplish nothing. Keep it simple. Understandable and straightforward. True, it would probably be nothing short of complex, if investigated just beneath the surface, perhaps even find a valid reason to justify such destructive behaviour. Was it because he wanted someone to notice his failure? Have someone to realize how ominous the situation was really looking, instead of just carrying on, blissfully ignorant? Just…to not be alone. One couldn't help but feel slightly concerned about dying alone, especially if one had known nothing but solitude. It would be nice…to finally have company; a friend. Just to be with for once.
"Yagami Light is…my first ever friend."
It wasn't true though, was it? Light was not his friend. You only had to scratch the surface to realize it was all a façade. L allowed a smile to graze his lips at this fitting analogy, although the action was only a hollow expression, and faded without recognition.
He couldn't remember the last time he had truly smiled.
Self-pity was a rare emotion to be experienced by the detective, but the prospect of his own death and what he had been reduced to doing warranted at least a brief moment to feel sorry for himself.
Was this procrastination?
Probably.
L returned from his contemplation, eyes refocusing, slightly confused as to where he was and what he was doing. A stinging in his thumb quickly reminded him of this; he had been pressing hard on the blade edge without thinking, a single trickle of blood had begun to crawl lazily down to his knuckle. The deep red was strikingly obvious against the pallid colour of his skin; even though the room was dark due to the bedroom curtains being shut. The heavy faux-velvet curtains were constantly closed, as pitch darkness was required for L to sleep at all. It was probably best he couldn't see completely what he was doing. However, that raised the window for mistakes up to nine percent. It was an acceptable risk to take.
The blade changed hands without much thought in the process, as L stared transfixed at the dark droplet. Leaving behind a trail as it continued its path downward, it followed the contours of his thumb accordingly. Blood was meant to…stay inside one's body, and to have it escape like this…it was morbidly intriguing.
Before the thought of "what does it taste like" had fully formed in his mind, L had already closed his mouth around his thumb, flicking the wound gently with his tongue. Having not reached any sort of conclusion with such a tentative approach, he then proceeded to suck softly, testing, running his tongue more forcibly back and forth across the small abrasion.
The taste was metallic and not unlike that of golden syrup.
That was a satisfactory result.
L removed the digit from his mouth and passed the blade back to the other hand. A pale wrist was then offered to it, the metal hesitantly accepting its prize, resting on the surface without breaking it. A thin line of pressure, skin surrendering and embracing the contact. Still not enough. The hand was shaking now, uncertain and fearful. Was this really okay? If he started, it couldn't be undone. The wounds would heal and fade with time. Maybe they would scar. But the knowledge of actually going through with it, with this self-punishment out of failure, couldn't ever be erased.
L dragged the blade across his arm purposefully. Stubborn defiance.
It was endurable. Though. through gritted teeth and closed eyes, what wasn't?
Shame really, he quite liked how his arms looked.