His rival used to watch him. Used to study him meticulously and painstakingly copy his every move: the man had noticed and simply shrugged it off as a young child copying his elder in the hopes to become like them no matter what. It happened in practically every society in the world; between friends, siblings, cousins.
Unfortunately for him, the one known in Wammy's House only as "B" (identity was a fickle friend, Roger used to say) had carried this childish habit on through childhood, puberty and teenagehood to the point where the other children told him he was infatuated, and stalked off to play with each other.
L knew better.
The eyes that watched him so intently were looking for flaws that the younger could overcome and thus prove himself that little bit better than "L". He knew because he had asked the boy one day why he was simply content to stare at him all the time, even through the other children's jibes about his sexuality, and when he could be using the time to further his studies.
"I'm watching to become exactly like you, and then better," the boy replied, eyes turned from pale blue to obsidian with the help of tinted contact lenses boring into the elder's all-seeing and all-knowing orbs. "I'm going to overcome your flaws, L, all twenty-four of them, and I'm going to show the world that you can be upstaged and bettered, even when you're the best."
Silence greeted these words, and B took the opportunity to scoop a handful of strawberry jam out of the jar and into his mouth. The two looked so similar they could have been twins - albeit their age difference and L's spikier hair that had been impossible to replicate with gel, water or natural bed-head - and the original watched the copy with a feeling similar to nausea beginning to unravel in his gut. It was only around him that B dropped his sugar-sweet attitude and revealed his true colours, and the detective found himself wondering whether or not the thick, sugary substance helped the boy put on such a ridiculous act around his mentors. Whatever helped him, he found it disgusting.
"You say you will overcome my flaws," he replied after some careful thought. "But what about your own"
The look on his face could have killed, if that was humanely possible. It was a glare that clearly boasted of egos and overconfidence and told L that he didn't have any flaws because he was B. And that quite simply spoke for itself, as long as you know the boy.
Without letting go of the sigh of irritation that had been building within him, L leaned forward and stuck a bony index finger into the glass jar, covering it with the sticky substance. He proceeded to lick it off before standing and leaving the boy along in his room, rejecting further conversation and blatantly ignoring the intense look of hate directed to his back. It took a lot of effort not to pull a face of disgust, and not even the flavour of actual strawberries could wash the taste from his cheeks, tongue, lips-
The next day had been the start of all the drama worthy of television and the drop of B's innocent attitude. Throughout all his trouble he continued to feast on the confectionary that L could easily imagine as blood with each passing day, and he made a promise to himself never to partake of the sinful sweet again or risk being reminded of the eyes that his almost-perfect clone had shown him. Whether or not they had flashed red was not important, but the detective had seen something so cruel in them, in a boy of a mere sixteen years of age, and had quite honestly been scared.
The bells ring and suddenly he is back on that grassy knoll again, staring at the sky and wishing that one day B would stop, turn his attentions elsewhere and quit eating the one sweet food in the world that should never have been invented...
It's been a long time since L has sampled the sickly-sweet, saccharine taste of strawberry jam, and the mixture of glucose and fruit extracts are still strong, everpresent, on his tongue, reminding him forever and beyond.