Summary: It's the beginning of the summer 1931, and due to health depletion from stressful studying, Watari, the Dean of Cambridge University, worries about his sixteen year old grandson, L's, health, and sends him to the countryside to live with the family of his good friend Soichiro, the retired Japanese ex-policeman who came to spend the remainder of his life running a grocery shop in the village of Knaresborough, whilst raising his two children Light and Sayu alongside his loyal young wife Sachiko. However, upon arriving, Soichiro's twelve year old child, Light, takes an unhealthy shine to L.
Warnings: Shota, a bit of OOCness here and there, and it's an AU story.
XXX
Upon being asked, L Lawliet would blame his bent psyche on quite a few people.
There was his mother, Lolita, of course. She was never around, when she was alive. He saw her on the odd occasion, but she was too busy living off L's deceased father's money, and not to mention her dislike of being linked to anything remotely maternal, leading to why L always referred to his mother by her first name. He referred to her as such due to the fact that that was all she was to him – a name that floated around, that popped up every now and then, not a mother. When there is a lack of a father, a child needs a mother, or someone to act as a surrogate mother at least, to have a secure upbringing. The rejection L felt from his mother in his early years constructed his lack of respect for uneducated women, and dislike of women in general.
L had good reason to blame his grandfather, Watari, too, but refrained from doing so. The elderly man had done too much for L, despite all his faults. His grandfather could be blamed due to his lack of action regarding his wild daughter, the one who he almost actively avoided due to 'fear upon death'. But for what little participation Watari took in the raising of Lolita, his only daughter, he made up for it by raising L, by being a stable father figure. He'd been the one to tell L the difference between right and wrong, which would've worked exceptionally well if it had not been for later interference.
Then, lastly, there was Aiber, the 'later interference'. L never forgot his name – it dissolved on his tongue, signs from where it had left a permanent mark on him. The utterance of the name brought up emotion invisible to all but L. There existed disappointment, sadness, but, more powerfully, a bittersweet excitement reminiscent from his preteens. He thrived off the memory, it was all that undid him, all that made the 'him' that lay beyond professionalism. It was why he acted like he did. Yes, it was the distant memory of what could be called a first infatuation, Aiber – that name! – was the accumulation of all awful feelings, he was every sin L had committed, and L was even more so to Aiber. Or at least, L assumed that, seeing as he hadn't seen the man in estimately three years. Yes, three long years.
XXX
Clanking and an orchestra of other mechanical noises bellowed through the train carriage, the train carriage belonging to the Harrestor, one of many grand trains that were currently racing their way through the English countryside. A young man occupied one of the first class stalls, sitting in a strange crouching position whilst leaning his head against the window pane, gazing out at the scenery yet looking at nothing at all. The curtains decorating the window swayed with the movement of the train, singing back and forth with every chik-chuh-chik sound from the wheels. The young man looked tired – weary from the journey, or perhaps weary from the thought of the journey continuing beyond this point. Not that it did. Not for very far, anyway.
The teen boy looked to his brown leather satchel that lay against his side from with smoky gray eyes, eyes that stared out from behind an ebony fringe. He stroked at the brass clasp, which felt cold and familiar at his fingertips. He pressed against the button, and it gave a satisfactory click, and slid open upwards to reveal its not-so-treasurable treasure. That pale hand pulled from the satchel a royal blue folder, with golden twine securing its corners, twine which was delicately undone by the black haired young man, in the peculiar way of using his thumb and index finger. He inspected the contents of the folder – a few pieces of paper, and five photographs. He glanced at the paper with blank disinterest, and focused those stony irises upon the pictures that accompanied them. One was a family photo – a stout, yet serious looking middle aged man in a well made suit, a much younger woman of around late twenties, perhaps early thirties, whose graceful smile showed appreciation of her situation. Sitting in front of them was a small girl, with almost porcelain features – upon first sighting her, the strange teen could've been sure it was a large china doll – who sat leaning against the leg of a young boy who, from the young man's calculations, looked about thirteen or younger, he was of a pre-teen appearance. The boy in the picture also had fragile features – perhaps even more so than his sister, if that was their relationship – and had inherited his mother's smile, calm, comforted and content. They were all of Asian race, or had strong Asian descent, evident from their faces.
From what he, the young man, had heard, the man in the photograph, looking like the husband of the family, was a successful foreigner. Upon hearing so, it was immediately thought the success was in opium, until the teenager heard the name. Soichiro Yagami – he was an ex-policeman turned retired national representative for the Japanese, who had come to England to improve foreign relations. It was in this line of work that this man had met his, the young man's, grandfather. And it was through this friendship that was forged that the young man in question had a destination.
The teenager sifted through the photographs that contained individual images of each family member. They weren't much different from the first picture, save for one – the profile picture of the young boy that the young man had paid a far bit of attention to differed to the one depicting him with his family. In this picture, there were the same features, the same fair eyes, but very different facial structure – not from his actual face, but from his facial muscles. It was hard to tell from the quality of the photo, but the smile here looked forced. A forced smile, but – what was this? - deviant eyes. Smart eyes, with hints of a spoiled nature, the eyes of someone that was used to getting what they wanted. It was at this particular photo that the strangely sat teen's face softened, and there was a fleeting smile that crossed his lips, back at the curiously disturbed eyes that sat on the face of the child that glared in the image before him.
It was at that moment all movement in the carriage came to a halt, and the boy hurriedly returned the documents to their folder, placed his satchel over his shoulder and grabbed the heavy black suitcase labelled L Lawliet from the rack, departing from the train and onto his stop.
XXX
L was greeted by the very same, stoic face from the photo outside the station. There, Soichiro Yagami himself stood, looking rather like any given gentleman of the early 1930s, or would've been, if it wasn't how obvious his nationality was. Another man, perhaps a decade or two younger, stood by his side, looking nervous. The older man nodded in acknowledgement to L, and beckoned him over as the chauffer took up L's luggage, placing it in the back of the automobile. Soichiro, now used to the customs of the West, greeted L by, to L's displeasure, shaking L's hand in a hurried manner.
"Ah, Mr. Lawliet, you've finally arrived. Look at how you've grown, I bet you don't even remember my face."
"There is a hint of recognition, though I'm afraid the feeling does not stand very long."
"Aha, still just as blunt. You were like that from the moment you could talk. No matter though. This is Touta Matsuda; he is my cousin's nephew, and the assistant to Mr. Aizawa, the man who took over my position as the Japanese representative two years ago. I believe you'll remember him as well as you remember me."
The man stepped forward, also taking L's hand to shake. "It's nice to see you again. Your father taught me well. He was a good man."
"It's good that someone told me, seeing as I myself wouldn't know."
There was a slightly awkward air around Matsuda that spread about the whole group. L's eyes focused on Matsuda, and replied, his eyes not moving from Matsuda once, "... I remember a Matsuda. You were tutored under Aiber, weren't you? Mathematics."
"Aiber...? Ah." Matsuda's eyebrows furrowed, then flew upwards in realisation. "You mean Professor Morello. Thierry Morello. I remember, Aiber, that was what you called him, isn't it? I remember he tutored you too, at the university library, and you would call him that."
Soichiro himself seemed to recognise the name. "Ah yes, didn't he and your grandfather have a fallout?"
L nodded. "There was a bit of... a misunderstanding."
There was a sweet little mystery that L felt in his own words, and he smiled inwardly at the nostalgia. Ah, the lessons in the library. And in the garden. And in the bath. He recalled how sweet it sounded, how only L was allowed to call him by that name. Of course, others could attempt to address Professor Thierry Morello as such, but L had always been told it never sounded right unless coming from L. And Aiber wasn't just a Mathematics tutor. He was a French tutor (mon ange, mon cher, tu es à moi). And an English tutor too. Well, not exactly. But he had definitely taught L words he'd never heard before.
L decided it was wise to bring himself from any reminiscence before it was too late, and continued speaking. "My grandfather believed that for a tutor, Aiber was exceptionally easy on me. My grandfather asked Aiber to stop teaching me, saying that Aiber spoiled me, and Aiber got into an argument with Grandfather over it, because he felt insulted. He left Cambridge as a result."
Not everything L said had been a lie. It was true, Aiber had spoilt L terribly. Aiber would buy him sweets, Aiber would let L choose what area of Maths to focus on. Aiber had let L give him a pet name which only L would use, which would've been seen as fine, though a little uncouth. But L guessed when you're hearing said pet name being repeatedly called out from a bedroom in a manner that could only be called amorous, especially your if it's your grandson's bedroom, it was somewhat suspect. When Watari fired Aiber for, 'being the pinnacle of unprofessionalism,' and, 'acting in a mortifying manner' and finally, 'breaching the innocence' of his grandson, it was the first time in his life that L had ever gotten extremely angry and unspeakably upset in the same day. He refused to talk to his grandfather for two weeks, and it was only when L's mood had dimmed and Watari had enough patience that the elderly man sat down and explained to L that what Aiber did was not something to defend, that L finally forgave him. It had never been a manner of L believing he had fallen in love, no, he was beyond that mind frame. It was a matter that Aiber had given L something addictive to want, something that L wanted to understand and learn about. When L absorbed that Aiber had done it with predatory intentions, that L was being made a fool of, that he resented Aiber. But now, the memories had affected L in a way that could be said to be beyond fixing, and though he resented Aiber for using him, the memories were nearly always looked upon fondly. Aiber may have used him for his own sins, but at least he'd done so lovingly.
"It's a shame," Matsuda sighed, interrupting L's train of thought, "Professor Morello was an excellent Mathematician. I hope his genius was not wasted on a lesser position."
"Indeed," Soichiro agreed, "May whatever ill will caused between Professor Watari and Professor Morello be calmed, and let's hope that he returns to Cambridge one day."
L smiled slyly to himself at their badly aimed good will, and nodded in agreement.
XXX
Admiral butterflies littered the air just above the cat tail weeds, that were scattered in bunches around the large house of the Yagami household. Tiny feet carried their owner after the pretty insects, and tiny hands reached for them out of desire. After five minutes of watching his sister chase Admirals endlessly, Light Yagami decided that it was too hot to move from his position on the veranda, but too boring to keep watching. Therefore, he concluded, he'd not really decided anything at all.
"Light!" The high toned sound of his mother's voice rang out from the kitchen. Like a cat, Light heard his mother's call perfectly well, but decided to not approach it out of his own laziness. If she wanted something, she could come to him. Light pulled at the hem of his beige shorts, the material tightening and rubbing up against his skin due to his cross-legged position leaning against the wooden beam that held the extended roof that was currently shading him. After two attempts to pull them down, he gave up, noting that there was nobody important enough around to see his legs in a shameful light anyway.
His sister hummed a petite tune to herself, or did until she ran too fast after a butterfly and got out of breath. She may be ten years old, Light thought, but she's still five in her mind.
"Light!"
"Yes?" He called back, not making any move towards the kitchen. He glanced at the hills in the distance, then back to his sister, when he heard the hum of a car approaching, something that cars only tended to do if they were headed this direction. Still not moving, Light watched it approach, curious. He recognised the car itself – it was his father's, the dark green emulsion visible from quite a distance- but he only recognised two of the passengers, not counting the chauffer. The third, he concluded, was evidently the visitor. He couldn't see the passenger himself very well, but he could make out blobs of colour and shape that he wasn't familiar with.
"Light!"
"Alright, I'm coming, I'm coming!"
XXX
Rays of light bounced off the polished bonnet of the automobile as it steadily pulled up alongside the large, Victorian house. L took in his temporary home as he exited the car, and kept near the two older men as the chauffer took L's luggage from the back of the car and carried it inside, ahead of L. His gaze didn't leave the exterior of the building – he absorbed the architecture, letting it soak in and hoping that the foreigness of it all would fade fast.
They entered through the front door single file, and the smell of Soichiro's home surrounded L. It smelt soft, like an exotic bread, and L followed the head of the household into the kitchen area, where a woman was working at the sink. She raised her head to look at L, and smiled – yes, this was definetely Sachiko Yagami. Her smile was a mirror image of her photo, and she bowed a little at L, obviously taking her time getting used to the still new Western culture that had accepted her.
"My wife, Sachiko," Soichiro beckoned her over, and she stood next to her husband, her stature smaller than her husband's, meaning both of them were relatively smaller than him.
"Her English isn't excellent, but if you speak clearly and don't use those long words you're so fond of, she will understand," Soichiro then turned slightly, nodding towards the window, "The lovely little one out there is Sayu. She speaks good English, when it suits her. She's a little bit sheltered though, I'll admit, and might pester you to play with her if you give her five minutes of your time."
"Of course." L looked about the kitchen, taking in more of his surroundings, and recalled that there was another member of this family not so present. He turned to Soichiro. "Don't you have a son?"
"Raito," said Sachiko in a slightly thick Japanese accent. She was eager to be as involved in the conversation as she could. "Raito is here. He gone to store, storage. He will be back a minute."
She looked unsure if she made sense, so L nodded in understanding to ease her. He wasn't fond of women, but this woman seemed to be a good person. Or he hoped she was. Either way, he felt the need to make an impression. It was rare for L to feel obliged to do so towards a woman, and he could only recall two women he'd ever shown respect for before – an American woman who'd done a lecture on the American Law system (Merry Kenwood? Mary Kenwood? Or was her second name Kainwood? It had been a few years, he could never ascertain her name) and a Japanese girl he'd met on an trip to Korea he'd accompanied his grandfather on, who beat him at chess three times out of three after he'd painstakingly taught her how through broken Japanese (something too embarassing for him to attempt again). Her name also tended to escape him, and he'd decided to refer to her as only as Naomi. This was only a first meeting with Mrs. Yagami though, and he decided to pass judgement on her at a later date.
L remembered the nasty, yet attractive eyes of the Yagami son, and felt a faint familiarity between him the the preteen. Sure, he didn't have the soft, pretty features, but there was that same spoilt fire in his face. This could've just been a simple coincedence, there was a chance that Raito Yagami was very much unlike him, but the flickers of affection remained.
As if his thoughts were broadcasted out to the whole area, at that moment, a loud click bouced from the garden door, and it swung open to reveal a small figure carrying three bottles of milk in his arms.
L felt almost instantly blown away.
The young boy's skin was slick with sweat, tanned, taut, the pure white of the milk contrasting against the darker tan of the boy's flesh. His features were just as delicate as his photo, only more highlighted when animated, and his chestnut bangs sweeped over his face, hanging over long eyelashes and paled lips. The boy spoke in an ordered voice as he entered the room, not noticing the presence of the visitor.
"Gyuunyuun o motte imasu, kaa-sama..."
It was a calm voice, and though L couldn't understand a word the preteen said, the boy's appearence had struck rather quickly at L, and even the bored tone sounded glorious. L's eyes looked the boy up and down fleetingly, admiring the way his beige shorts brushed up against his legs with every small movement the boy made, those legs themselves showing healthy muscles that were visible against the skin, with no visible fat on them, beyond the slight puppy fat that hung around the thighs and calves. The boy, L concluded through a haze, was rather lovely, if a little too obediant.
Their eyes met as Raito, the Yagami's oldest, placed the milk upon the kitchen counter. Neither of them looked away – one too taken aback, the other too curious – and the boy, Raito, said in well pronounced English, "Is this the visitor?"
Soichiro nodded to his son, and looked to L. "Speak of the devil. This is my son, Raito, also my oldest. He's very intelligent, very well spoken, as you can see. If you crave someone to talk to on your own level, Raito's your man."
The boy leaned against the counter, and frowned. "I don't think he'd keep up, Dad."
There were distant flutters of excitement in L. Such cheek! This boy, yes, definetely no mistaking it. He was similar to L, in almost every way L had expected. To talk that way to his father, of all people... yes, this Raito was spoilt, nicely spoilt.
Soichiro was obviously embarrassed by his son's disrespect. He turned to L, eager to mend the mistake his son had made. "I'm sorry, L, it's the village boys, they..."
But L interuppted, his eyes not taken off of Raito.
"I believe you must think high of yourself to talk down to me, of all people." L walked towards the boys, and bent down to his line of vision. "When I was your age, I was already taking University level degrees in mathematics, science and the arts. I'd graduated from Cambridge University before I'd even reached my sixteenth birthday." L smiled slightly, happy to be inspecting the younger boy's features from a closer vantage point. "If you believe that does not demand your respect, Raito, then I'm afraid life will be a rather hard battle for you."
The boy's face blanked in thought, and then cleared, his mind made up. "I will give you respect when I see proof of this, Mr. ...?"
"L Lawliet." L glanced at the boy's lips one last time before returning his gaze to meet the boy's eyes.
"Can I call you L?" The boy asked, tempted to bat his eyelashes in mock submittance, but stopping himself to avoid doubts of his own masculinity.
"I don't see why not."
"Very well. Call me Light."
The two of them seemed to swap shared looks of satisfaction as the awkward onlookers felt like they could breathe again.
XXX
Woooooooo, this was time consuming. I spent a whole day on it. Yes, I know I should be updating the Exchange, but I was ill today, and the influences Lolita and Atonement have inflicted upon me were too strong to resist -_- Though they are seriously good books. And yes, I stole L's mother's name from Lolita, and I'm not too ashamed to admit that And I rather like the storyline I have with this, so I will be continuing it, whether anybody likes it or not.
Reviews are appreciated 3