An attempt of making an otherwise sweet-and-fluffy plotline sound serious. This is multi-chaptered drabbling, and my way of preparing myself into writing full-fledged stories.
Eventual L/Light. Let's unravel the situation through this prologue. Mild M, but not as of yet.
As per usual, half-width and critique.
"You're insane."
Hooded eyes feign self-mutilating remorse, and he mouths with chapped lips. "I know."
L Lawliet doesn't quite recognise the meaning of 'socially-unacceptable'- or, rather, if he does, he has a knack of overlooking such a term. When one leg shuffles forward, Naomi almost wants to reach out and grasp the teen, rattle his bones, tell him just how idiotic his intentions are. Alas.
The misogamist stands, palms pressed in silent prayer, pity burst within her chest painfully, unbearably. Her jacket has roots, they stain her flesh with dye, her bones rot within their spot, and she finds herself motionless to save her friend from this public humiliation. All the while, her prayer is incessant and passionate, pleading for his logic to return, for his brilliance to reawaken.
Alas.
L smiles a slight smile, the sort of smile that surfaces slowly and struggles to spread sufficiently. Naomi desires to deck her companion a good one in his jaw, but his retreating-protruding-slumping is much too far for her fist to reach. Lawliet's arms, she notes with a grimace, are out-stretched within the force of old romantic shows, or perhaps the obnoxious reference to Titanic. Perhaps, once he's finished with this immature display, he may be used as a most-embarrassing antenna, to which the student-body could enjoy championship games.
'Or perhaps,' she notes as his hair is damp, stuck and pointed in all directions. 'a make-shift scarecrow.'
His hands are built for puzzles, suudoku, crosswords, and sugar-cubes. They aren't built for loudspeakers, to which remains most sinfully on his left, and allows him to voice his darkest musings. His mouth is also damp across the mouthpiece, but Naomi isn't aware of this- Lawliet is, and every drip of rain prickles the hair of his lip.
His lips part, vocals apart. And he speaks, most timidly.
"Sumimasen. I'm aware that I may be interrupting the consumption of your meals,"
(Always the intricate gentleman.)
"But I have something important to say."
Students have risen their faces to the intrusion, consisting of a teenager's bellow through a loudspeaker. What exactly was the school's socially-inept genius doing on the rooftop? The announcement was awaited with bated breath.
"Yagami Light-san has… bothered me most profusely as of late. Until now, I failed to understand why his phrases made my stomach aflutter with an incessant prickling. I believed that it may be a part of our academic rivalry, despite the two of us being strangers otherwise, but." Lawliet pauses, knowing that he has stalled everyone's time for far too long.
Aforementioned rival, Yagami Light, arises from his seat, an eyebrow raised. Amane Misa is at his arm, and matches the expression of perplexed abashment.
Lawliet presses on softly, face hung and fringe interweaving lashes. "Though Yagami Light-san must consider this blasé, I consider his aesthetics to be amongst the most pleasing in my years, and as I know nothing about him, it has come to my conclusion that perhaps,"
He presses a palm to his stomach, shutting his eyes to keep his breakfast at bay.
"I'd consider it nothing but a dream if he ever accompanied me to a date."
Never had the courtyard roared with such bemused laughter.