Yhe Yew Tree

"Did you sleep well?", his mother asked, seeing him at the kitchen door. It was seven in the morning on a Saturday, an unusual time for him to wake up, especially after such a long travel. The jet lag still didn't let him go. "Do you want some juice?"

"I'd prefer coffee," he said, but noticing his mother's stern look, he added in a resigned tone: "Juice will do."

Well, he could drink coffee later, when no one was watching. But a cup right now would probably help him get rid of this weird, unsettling feeling... He wasn't sleeping well. He wasn't sleeping at all. And even though at first it seemed to be a post-time zone change thing, he was strangely uneasy. As childish as it sounded, there seemed to be something off about this house.

They've moved in just four days ago - his father was a diplomat and recently got promoted to work in England. They were used to moving around quite frequently, but this time the authority decided to assigne Mister Yagami as a full-time ambassador. He had a flat in London, but there was also this countryside mansion for his use and as the school year didn't started yet, they decided to stay there. His mother was delighted to see a beautiful vast garden she could take care of, already planning to cut out some trees, especilaly the gloomy-looking yew, growing right outside his bedroom window. He thought it was a good idea - the tree was making him shiver with its shadow and when it was bending under the strong wind, he could sware it sounded like howling. though it could have been his sister crying in her room on the other side of the corridor; she was still devastated after they left Honolulu, their father latest post. She loved Hawaii, its wheather and landscapes, but above all she was mouring her friends.

He wasn't so scepitcal about England. He didn't like Hawaii that much in the first place and the sun was unberable sometimes. August in Cornwall was sunny too, but less exhausting. And he heard the school his father chose for him had an amazing programm. What else could he wish for? He had his books and music and no one was interrupting his peace here.

He took his juice - it tasted different then the one he used to drink last week on the other side of planet Earth - and made a few steps to the back door. It was still rather chilly outside, but he liked the morning freshness. And it was quiet, so quiet - he could hear his own breath sounding so much louder than usually. The yew tree was still shadowing over his window and for a brief moment he nearly screamed, becuase it seemed there was smoenody up there in his room, looking at him with piercing eyes. But he blinked and - of course - there was no one looking at him. How silly to let his mind wonder so aimlessly.

"Hello," he heard a voice behind his back.

It was their gardener, Mr Wammy. They;ve heard he was taking care of this garden for years and knew all the previous estete woners, so it felt the only probper choice to keepn him there. His wage wasn;t that high and he surely knew his work.

"Looking at the yew tree?" he asked him, a somehow concrned look in his eyes. How old could this man be? His face was full of wrinkles, but it didn't make him look grim - he was looking more like a stereotypical grandfather, always ready to give his many grandchildren a candy or two. But he's heard the man was living alone nearby, with flowers as his only companions.

"How old is it? The tree?" he wondered aloud, guessing the gardener should know.

"Does it bother you?" the eldery man questioned, not answering right away.

"And should I be bothered?" he didn't like this weird way of talking; it was getting on his nerves and he was sure his English was clear enough for the man to understand.

But even though he though Mr Wammy could be offended by his impolite manners, the latter chuckled a little, as if he had heard something funny. Seeing the young resident's surprised look, he said:

"There is something familiar about the way you formulate your irritation."

Of course it didn't explain anything, but maybe the gardener was too old to be questioned?

He was going to go back to the kitchen for some butter-filled rolls his mother baked the other day, but the man stopped him:

"It is old. The yew tree." They were looking at it again; the branches were moving lightly, even though there was little wind. "I was oposing planting it here - it's blocking the view from the northern bedroom and having a tree so close to your house isn't the best idea - it can collapse someday or a lightning may strike it. But the previous owner..." he smiled tenderly, as if remembering some old days, "Mr Lawliet had to have the last word in everything. So I planted the yew tree or rather - to be precise - he planted it with my help."

"When did it happen?"

"Fifty years ago, right before his premature death. He was my first employer here"

He looked at the yew tree again. Why would anyone plant it in such a unsuiting place?

Maybe it was meant to be exactly like this - mismatched, ruining the perfect view, so no one could overlook it. Maybe it was a way of trying to be remembered.

Was it holding the memories of a man gone so many years ago? His hopes and dreams, lost so early, remembered only by the old gardener and the yew tree.

...

He caught himself thinking about the previous owner much often than he would like to admitt. There was something about his story that wasn't letting him forget it.

So he started reasearching it, looking for press materials about his death and maybe some photos or mementos. There was not much left - a few books he found in the house library, an old seal, a letter adressed to someone named B, never sent as it seemed. And when he gave up hope to find something more significant, something that would let him imagine what this man was like, among the old papers he found a photo, faded and torn, but still useful.

He knew there was something wrong about it - it seemed he has met this man before and how could he, knowing he was dead for fifty years now? The previous owner wasn't famous or well known, so there was little chance he saw his photo before...

But then realisation hit him - he saw this man only a few day ago, in his own window, staring at him from behind the yew branches.

...

He couldn't sleep.

It was impossible he has seen this face before, it was his mind playing some games. He was tired that day and the shadows were just forming a mirage.

He couldn't have seen a ghost. It was unreasonable to think so.

But it was so much easier now to hear all the wierd and scary sounds in the house. He could sware he heard moaning or crying or maybe steps? It was probably the wind, the old wood, the cat Sayu brought home yesterday... Everything was a better explanation than a supernatural being.

But he could no longer decieve himslef, when a voice, soft, yet unreal, spoke to him in the middle of the night:

"Are you afraid?"

If he was able to, he would jump out of his own skin, but strangely, he was unable to move an inch. So trying his best to stop his voice from shaking, he lied:

"No, I'm not," and after a moment of silence, added: "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

For a long minute he thought no one will answer him and he felt nearly relieved. He was alone in his room, and it was the sleep depravation playing tricks with his head. Nothing special.

"You know already," the voice said, sounding nearly amused.

"Mr Lawliet?" he asked, not believing he's having this conversation. Maybe it was all nothing more than a dream, a projection of his interest in the decesed man?

"You can call me L."

…

And so he did. This night and many other nights that followed.

Because it wasn't a dream – the shadowy presence that seemed unreal at first, merely an imagination, took a shape of a man in his early twenties, undoubtly ill, judging by the dark circles under his somehow hollow eyes.

He never imagined a ghost to be like L was. Ghosts were supposed to be miserable and scary, haunting the living, demanding them to leave their houses and playing tricks. And yet he was so different – melancholic and silent at times, but mostly daring, absorbing, even funny, as unbelievable as it might sound. And he was intelligent and familiar with many subjects – history, medicine, art, there seemed to be nothing he hasn't heard about.

It was refreshing to meet someone like him. Until this day, there was no one who could match his intelligence and attitude. L had everything he was looking for in another person – everything besides life.

At first it didn't bother him at all – it should be more disturbing a ghost was living in his room, talking with him, looking at him when he was reading. And yet as time passed it started to feel restraining. There were so many things they couldn't do together; even a simple walk wasn't an option, because L was bound to the house, or the yew tree, he never said it precisely. It was more than a pity on his side; never having a friend and finding one that was already dead sounded like a terrible joke.

"What were you doing back then?", he asked one night, sitting on his bed drinking the forbidden coffee. His mother would be furious had she seen it. "When you were still alive?"

"I was a detective," L answered, looking out of the window. His face was hidden from the lamp light, but his voice sounded sorrowful.

"And?", he nuged him, wanting to know more.

"And I was the best detective in the world, obviously," added the late man, smiling slightly.

"Were you?", he mocked. "Your undeniable talent in avoiding my questions would rather point to a criminal career."

"The criminal an the detective are bonded for life," L stated, trying to bite his nail, probably a habit that wasn't so easily abandoned despite being dead.

"Were you both of them?"

The man looked at him doubtfully.

"To be a good detective, you have to be an outstanding criminal," he said in the end.

"Aren't these two options irreconcilable?", he asked, unconcived. "How can you be both the good and the bad, the one who's running away and who's trying to catch him?"

"You live in a world of beautiful lies, Light," L gave him an amazed look. "Aren't you living a double life too? A perfect son, yet you drink your father's coffee in the middle of the night."

"It's not..." he wanted to defend himself, but it was too late – the sun was getting up already and L vanished.

…

He wasn't there every night – sometimes he seemed distant and absent-minded, lost in thoughts he didn't want to share with anyone. He wanted to do something about it, there were days he wanted to scream in vain for his long lost friend, trying to find a way to reach for him. But there was no way and never could be, their worlds were eternally parted. He felt helpless and hated it, but there was one thing that scared him even more – a desire he never knew, something odd and distressing. At times he was catching himself fantasising how would it feel to touch L's hair, to hear his breath close to his neck, to caress his pale skin. When L wasn't there, during the stormy nights, he felt desperately alone. On such night the yew tree was howling endlessly, forcing his mother to nug Mr Wammy to cut it. But even though he kept promising to do it, he never did in the end.

…

Summer moved on. The days were no longer so sunny and the nights has gotten colder, but he didn't mind. The sooner the sun was going down, the sooner he was able to see L. It felt like a dream, a nightmare at times, because there was no way to make it real. It would be a scandal big enough if he brough a boy home to meet his parents, but what was there to do with L?

These days he felt restless; during the day he could only think about the night and when night was approching, he was already mourning the sunrise that was going to come and part them again.

"Is something bothering you?", L asked him one night, sitting on his bed. Normally it would be awkward to sit so near to somebody, but with L it didn't feel wrong. Was it because he was dead or because he was L? He wasn't sure.

"I'll leave soon," he answered, looking away. It was troubling him for weeks now. Summer was ending and soon enough he was supposed to leave the house and its dweller.

"I thought you were excited to see your new school," L stated, as always unbiased. At times he was wondering whether he even appreciated his company or was only killing time talking to him.

"I like it here," he said quietly, trying to breath evenly. "I don't want to leave yet."

"Why?", L seemed surpried. "There is much in the world to do and not much of it can be done here"

"But you are here."

Did he say it aloud?

It seemed an hour passed until L spoke again:

"Why would you consider my companion so worthy?"

Why? Did he really had to ask? There were so many reasons – L's annoying tone, his unruly hair, the way he spoke about constellations and King George VI, even his childish smile was nice to look at.

"I like you," he said in the end, not wanting to sound needy or pretensious with all the real reasons. "I've never met someone like you before."

"Probably because all the men like me are already gone," L laughed at his own joke, trying to sound at ease, but seing his friend's serious face, he spoke softly: "Light, don't. Don't be decieved by my ways. I'm neither good, nor gentle, and there is nothing in me that you should be drawn to."

"And do you think I'm good or gentle? Or maybe generous or kind?", he asked angrily, finally looking up. "I'm a liar, an insidious flatterer, yet I would quit it all if I could only have your company. I drunk my father's coffee, remember?"

They fell silent again. The clock was ticking mercilessly in the background, not pulled by their emotions.

But then L moved a little, even though it didn't affect the bed in a slightiest way. He was close now, closer then he ever was. If he was breathing, he could definitely feel his breath now. But there was nothing – no breath, no heartbeat. Only his hollow eyes piercing through his own.

He tried to reach for L's shoulder, but his hand flied right through it.

"We are together at last, though far apart," L smiled in resignation.

…

Something woke him up suddenly; a deafening noise somewhere near. At first it seemed more like a dream, but then he realized it wasn't one – he was hearing a chainsaw outside his window.

He sat up in a split of second. What was happening?

He saw the yew tree branches moving unnaturally. It couldn't be real.

He jumped out of his bed and ran towards the window – Mr Wammy was outside, cutting the tree carefully, his own mother watching him.

No, no, no, it wasn't real, it couldn't be. Maybe it was another dream, maybe he was just afraid of leaving L behind and going back to school.

But the noise was extremely real and there was no mistake – the yew tree was being cut.

He didn't have a chance to say something, to have a proper goodbye. Would it change anything? Probably not. But there were still so many things he wanted to know about L, so many riddles and mysteries.

He didn't realize he started crying; not hysterically like his sister, but quietly and sorrowfully. It was something that could never be, a friendship or whatever it was, souls that found one another beyond life and death.

In the end he went outside; the tree was nearly entirely cut. Mr Wammy looked at him as if he knew. Maybe L was visiting him too? But instead of words of consollation he gave him a little twig.

"Maybe one day you'll find each other again," the gardener said and returned to his work.

…

His bedroom was sunnier; the gloomy feeling left it irrevocably. His mother was content now.

But he tried to avoid the room as much as possible, sitting in the library, endlessly reading that one letter or wandering around the mansion in vain.

Fortunately, his time in Cornwall was up and he had to go to school. A week ago he would feel upset with it, but now it was nearly relieving. He couldn't stay there, knowing what he lost.

The yew twig was hidden in his wallet.

…

"Light Yagami?"

"Present."

"It seems everyone's here," the headmaster greeted them cordially. "The first year might be tough, but don't be too scared, you won't be alone! Our new teacher is here to tell you everything, so welcome him nicely and try to behave. Do we understand each other, boys?"

"Yes, sir," the class answered in unison, waiting for the teacher to come in.

He wasn't paying much attention, still thinking about what was gone. He was wondering how long would it take him to forget? Was it even possible?

"Today-" a voice came to him from afar. It sounded strangely familiar, even though he didn't know anyone here. "-we'll start on page 34, Of criminals and detectives. Please, read it carefully."

He looked up in disbelief.

"Impossible," he whispered to himself unconsiously.

A pair of dark eyes gazed upon him. A hint of smile appeared on the lips he knew so well.

He was found.

AN: Another story written for Lawlight Week 2016. I guess I'm starting to enjoy writing AUs. Did you like it as much as I did?