A/N: Why? Inspiration, I suppose. And then of course I've been dying to write B.
Mine.
Oh, what an exceptionally lovely word, he thought, fingertips idly tracing patterns on the boy's arm. He thrilled in the sound of it; mine mine mine mine mine. All mine.
He suddenly had the urge to speak it aloud, to feel the giddy word on his lips.
So he did.
"Mine," he whispered. And it felt so good, he did it again. "Mine." And again. "Mine. Mine mine mine mine mine," until it turned into a chant of sorts—like a song. A sweet, sick little tune, so perfect and fine and lovely that it made him smile to hear it.
Did Light enjoy it as much as he did? Could Light hear his lullaby, his wonderful little lullaby? But, oh how silly of him, Light was asleep. Was Light dreaming of him, then?
He was sure that, if he ever slept, he would dream of Light. Of never having to share his perfect Light with the cruel, filthy world. Oh, no—he could not let his little angel be tainted by such a place.
His Light, his angel.
Perhaps he might call it fate, had he believed in such things. Fate, destiny, like the numbers floating above Light's head. Light was intended for him, to be his and no one else's. Because no one, no one at all understood Light the way B did. No one else could loosen those fragile little strings, unraveling and untangling all that was Light Yagami—not the way he could. No; it had to be him. He knew, he understood. And he would pull Light apart, piece by piece, would revel in the glorious perfection of it all until there was nothing left.
Did Light fancy himself to be brave?, B wondered. Did he think that his eloquent words and charming smile would be able to save him? Sweet, naïve little boy, B thought. So innocent, so pure—like this sick, twisted world would never be able to touch him.
But B would show him.
And B, oh, B would be the one to break Light. Perfect, beautiful little Light—he needed to be broken. If B didn't do it, someone else surely would. The mere thought was entirely unacceptable; Light belonged to him.
Oh, yes, he thought, Light was his—mine. Mine mine mine mine, and the mantra began again—silently, this time.
It was not until several minutes later that his little song was finally silenced, when he noticed, gleefully, that the boy was at last waking up. He watched the eyes—those exquisite honey eyes—flutter gently, lashes dark and thick against the flawless skin, before widening considerably in silent, surprised fear at the sight of the man before him.
The corners of B's lips turned upwards slowly, and the single repeated word echoed through his head and down, down, down, out his lips.
"Mine."