Title inspired by Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness
The sickness didn't manifest itself in an obvious or obnoxious manner; at least, not at first. If asked by a physician when exactly the he began to feel the symptoms, L wouldn't be able to answer, not accurately. In his memory, the sickness blended so beautifully with images and sensations of all sorts, and all through his body the sensations extended, so much so that L almost felt foolish for finding it an unnatural presence in his life.
As he recognized the sickness, it began to feel much like a presence which loomed behind him, dagger in clenched hands, hovering, frozen, in the death stroke.
It was also impossible to detect when exactly it began creeping up on him, too, as L couldn't pinpoint the moment he became aware of his ailment. Perhaps it crept the moment he entered the world; why he should bother himself about it now seemed unnecessary, yet he couldn't resist toying with his curiosity, with the strange burning.
Figuratively, a shiver danced down L's spine. Figuratively, of course, as control and competitiveness forced even the faintest indication of true emotion to drown in the depths of his subconscious, never to surface, never to touch the air or feel the weight of the ever-present gaze.
"L."
L realized, belatedly, that the psuedo-shiver wasn't imaginary; it was the sensation of Light's body leaning ever-so-slightly into his. His skin crawled, revulsion dragging its cold, invasive fingers over his flesh. His heart raced, each hurried beat a chilling threnody.
"L," Light repeated. "I'm tired."
Tired. Always, always tired.
Hello tired; I'm hungry. Pleased to meet you.
L sighed, exasperated both with his moronic, sugar-induced mental reply and the teenager's repetitive whining. "If he wishes to sleep, Light-kun may. There are several ways to sleep out here; if he wishes for me to demonstrate..."
"L."
The tone of his voice alone raised the statistical likelihood of his being Kira. Light's growl was not one of an ordinary, sane man (though L supposed he wasn't fit for analyzing sanity related to the desire of sleep), and not meeting the criteria was troublesome, even if he was a neurotic, brilliant teenager under the delusion that absolutely everyone required 8 hours of sleep every night for maximum health and efficiency.
Regardless, L concluded the tone indicative of Kira. He rose slowly from his seat, the chain tinkling with his movement, as though praising his surrender.
L stifled a scoff.
Light, finally registering his unnecessarily closeness, backed away from the detective quickly, though not before their bodies awkwardly collided. The chain tightened with the teenager's subsequent recoil, and the detective's head began to ache. An awkward pause emerged, thick and foggy; Light's features arranged themselves into a carefully apathetic mask, ridding themselves of the brief flickers of discomfort. Triumph surged quickly through L at the weakness in his rival's armor.
(Or was it false weakness designed to lure the detective into a false sense of success?)
"Well?" L asked. "Are you going to stand there gaping the whole night, or are you going to the room?"
"Our room," Light amended as they walked away from the computers and into a darkened hallway. "We both use it."
"My, my, Light-kun is rather possessive."
"What is possessive about it being ours? Aren't I disproving you by indicating our shared usage, and therefore ownership, of our room?"
"I was not incorrect by abstaining from assigning the room an owner. I don't see why this matters so much to you."
Light frowned. "Why don't you call it our or your room?"
"Why do you care so much?"
"I'm curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat, Light-kun."
"Is that a death threat I hear?" Light teased.
"Only if you'd like to interpret it as such."
Light chuckled, and L took note of his emotional fluctuation, marveling slightly at how a single comment could diffuse one's anger. Granted, the teenager's emotions were most likely false, but his were mirrors of "proper" human communication, and therefore indicative of some accurate behavioral changes.
L didn't understand Light's interest in the subject; why would such a thing matter? All he did was refuse to assign ownership of the room. If anything, it should've been obvious why the detective would refrain from such a small thing. To use "our" or "my" indicated attachment, indicated God knew what else, things L didn't want to deal with. Such aversion seemed ridiculous even to the detective, but he didn't care much for the appearance of ridiculousness anymore.
They walked down the corridors silently, softly, the chain singing praises and the lack of conversation strangely suffocating. L shuffled behind Light, neither man jerking the chain; they'd finally mastered maneuvering through the halls without taunt chains and bruised wrists.
The haste to return the room countered Light's languid stride towards the bathroom, where he began his nightly cleansing ritual without haste. As the teen fell into the familiar preparations, setting bottles on the counter and darting into the bedroom to grab his hairbrush, L tensed automatically, dreading his upcoming part in the never-ending play.
Light began by sweeping his hair away from his face, tucking strands long and rebellious behind his ears. L always found Light's obsession with grooming irritating, from the moment they met up to the quiet present, the teenager's hands uncharacteristically still, fingers buried in hair, eyes locking with the detective's in the mirror.
This wasn't how the ritual went; they weren't supposed to properly acknowledge each other yet.
The silence grew thicker, and the mirror seemed to darken slightly, shadows stretching and receding like the sea, reaching for and hiding from their reflections. Neither man's image changed perceptively, of course (save for the eyes, which grew all the more ensnaring the longer they were focused, which seemed to flash colors of red and blue respectively when one looked hard enough); L knew most things he saw with Light were "in his head," so to speak; either a product of imagination or a discovery unfit for revealing to the world.
There was only so much the task force could handle; one wrong move, one comment too far, and he might have a mutiny on his hands. Light's father had let his emotions get the better of him in the past; what he would do should L reveal his absolute certainty of Light's guilt without "proper" proof remained a mystery, one he couldn't solve now.
His eyes burned from lack of blinking, but he refrained from heeding their cries. Light wasn't blinking either, and, no matter how childish it was, the detective didn't want to succumb first. He was sure the teen felt the same pain, as a faint eye twitch sent ripples over his face, distorting the smooth, intense features. Immediately following the twitch was a flash of anger, and it reminded L of unnaturally reversed lightening.
In moments like these, L knew with certainty he was chained to a killer.
Light's hands unfroze and wandered, seeking his toothbrush (an exact replica of his at home, as was every product the teen used in the bathroom), only to grasp the pile of hot pink hair clips L ordered for Light to assist in securing his hair away from his face.
(They would've looked slightly more ridiculous than when he brushed his hair back repeatedly throughout the nightly ritual. Slightly.
L's thoughtfulness was not well-received.)
Light grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste and began brushing in circles for exactly two minutes and thirty seconds before spitting out the toothpaste and grabbing the towel L grasped between two fingers and dangled above his head, somehow managing to brush the detective's hand in the process.
(It was easier to give Light the towel than to watch him look for the one he preferred, use it, and set it away. This was the only amendment L made to the ritual.)
Light set the towel aside once finished and cleared his throat awkwardly. L didn't respond to the prompt; he only continued to stare silently at Light's reflection.
"Would you please release me?" Light asked, voice beaten into politeness.
L moved forward, already grasping the key to his cuff, and unlocked it, careful to avoid skin-to-skin contact as much as possible. Light rubbed his wrist before removing his shirt (which seemed a replica of L's white shirts, save for the dark blood-red tint) and stood before the mirror, shirtless. His gaze shifted to the bottles of cleansers by the sink, and he began to wash his face, meticulously scrubbing in small, circular motions.
After a minute of scrubbing, Light cupped water and splashed it on his face, repeating this gesture four times before reaching for a towel once again dangling from L's grasp.
Tonight, the water seemed messier than usual. Unlike the cliché commercials the detective sometimes glimpsed gracing the screen of a certain ex-detective watching TV when he thought no one was paying attention, Light never gracefully threw water in the air in a perfect arc, and it didn't dramatically splash onto his face and simultaneously clean everything, but tonight, it seemed as though his actions held distinct, TV-like qualities. The airborne water glistened and gleamed as light toyed with each droplet seconds before it slammed onto perfect, tan skin, and even then, the droplets dripping down his face and hands toyed with L, ensnaring his attention, showcasing Light's alluring skin and faint but powerful muscles as they danced down his arms and neck.
Once again, their hands brushed as the teen grabbed the towel; however, this time, the contact sparked heat and sent shoots of electricity up his arms, throughout his body. Try as he might, L couldn't smother the heat burning his cheeks; thankfully, his reflection betrayed none of his internal strife.
Light patted his face nonchalantly, as though the collision was meaningless. He wasn't wiping away the water on his arms or neck, and L found himself wanting to wipe away the water, eradicate it. Maybe then it would stop, the strange pull, the burning in the pit of his stomach, the ache in his hands; maybe if the droplets were no more, his thoughts would vanish, too.
Light glanced up at the detective, then at a river coursing down his right arm, and set the towel down.
"You're staring, L," Light reminded him, the unspoken question countering the gentle, amused upward quirk of the teen's lips.
Chills swept through the detective; he felt, momentarily, like a gazelle trapped in the gaze of a lion. Indignation rose within him; he wasn't a weak animal; he wasn't prey. He was Kira's downfall.
He would not falter, would not fall.
"What of it?"
"Why do you stare?"
L's reflection paused, eyebrows raised slightly, the perfect picture of apathy. "I must watch for signs of Kira."
Light's mouth tightened, no longer a small smile. "Oh? And have you found signs of him?"
"No more than usual. The possibility of you being Kira is both high and low, depending on interpretation. Your neurotic cleansing rituals can be indicative of mental instability, as mass murderers sometimes share this quality, but this alone does not condemn you. You've done nothing to raise the levels any higher than they already within the past hour, as of this moment."
No flash of anger distorted Light's features; rather, he seemed to sink further into a strange sort of calm. He nodded once, softly, before he grabbed his brush and began brushing his hair.
L narrowed his eyes; Light skipped a step. Usually, he put his nightshirt (without it, apparently, sleep was impossible) on before he brushed, as his hair wouldn't get messed up.
Light brushed slower than usual, too. There was no need to, and anyone else brushing their hair that slowly would've just looked uncomfortable, but the teenager didn't lose his poised, relaxed expression. The fifteen strokes of the brush dragged the tense silence across nails and broken glass; L wanted to question it, but he was afraid to.
The predatory gleam in Light's eyes was answer enough.
L's body ached; it sought movement, sought some strange gratification L never considered strongly before, thus making resistance simultaneously easy and challenging. In that moment, he knew Light had discovered something about himself the detective hadn't yet, and the knowledge angered him.
The detective stood his ground. He maintained apathetic eye contact without succumbing to the strange pull; however, the desire and desperation remained, as did his rage.
Light finished brushing his hair and turned around, his full attention once again on the detective. The teen reached toward the detective's hands, and L fought every impulse to pull away and stood his ground. Light's lips quirked upwards once more, and, rather than grab his hand, he plucked the other cuff from L's hand and snapped it around his wrist.
"Ready?" Light asked.
L didn't answer, deeming his exit of the bathroom a suitable response.
"You should answer me when I ask you something."
Apparently, it wasn't.
"And why does Light-kun suppose that?"
"It's good manners."
"When did I ever say I had or cared about good manners?"
Light smiled at L, a mere twitch of lips, hardly soft yet not quite provocative or hostile. "It's common human decency. L is human, is he not?"
"Is it common human decency too, murdering people who don't meet the same moral standards you do?"
Light's features remained tainted with false pleasantries and true anger. "Why must you constantly allude to me as though I am Kira? You know I'm not a killer; surely you must have figured that out now. How could I possibly be Kira while I'm tied up to you?"
"You're intelligent enough to have foreseen me doing something like this to discover your crime and found a way to continue your killings through alternative means until you've escaped my scrutiny."
"I'd take that as a compliment, coming from you, the greatest detective in the world, except it is rather hard to accept a compliment from a man who's falsely convinced I'm a killer. I can't think well of your concept of intelligence if your own intellectual prowess is lacking."
L blinked and fought to suppress a grin. "Your childish attempt to insult my intelligence suggests that I hit a nerve. I am secure enough in my abilities that I do not require the praise of others, and their insults do not phase me. This is where you and I differ."
"Oh?" Light crossed his arms over his chest and shuffled closer to L, looming over his hunched form. "Enlighten me on our differences."
L, sensing a challenge in what wasn't spoken, hunched further inward, gathering strength from a position believed to be submissive. Only the teen understood this, the truth behind his body language, and L saw Light tense out of the corner of his eyes. Respect flickered faintly in the detective; in that moment, it was hard not to appreciate the understanding, however harmful it could be.
Knowing Light, he probably hadn't ever experienced an equality in intelligence. L knew he hadn't, not truly; his potential successors didn't directly interact with him often, and, when they did, the air of competition stirred between only the successors. The only one who'd challenged him was Near, and that wasn't anything like competing with Light. Scarcity with equals for both men made their particular relationship all the more exciting, as there was no need for senseless chatter, constant explaining, or the like. L knew he found Light's presence refreshing sometimes, even if he was certain the teen was Kira.
Regardless, it wasn't healthy to commend Light for his intellectual stimulus, however welcome. To commend him opened the door to admiration, admiration to respect, respect to friendship, friendship to something more, something L refused to consider.
Light was dangerous. Light was Kira. Light was a monster not to be trifled with, a brilliant, resourceful monster.
"You thrive on showcasing your genius. You know you're intellectually superior to a vast majority of the population, and, not only do you want them to know it, you want to use your gift to control others."
"How is that different than what you do? You solve cases, hiding in the shadows, forcing others to come before you and beg for assistance. You have gifts, too, yet you only use them for your gain, and only when you want to. How does that make us different?"
"I don't slaughter to achieve a false sense of justice; I satisfy my cravings of justice by solving complex cases others can't so that those who do wrong face just punishments for their crimes."
"And, subsequently, those you catch may reach their deaths. Which would mean you, more or less, are the same as Kira, except you think that by not killing them directly yourself, you're doing the right thing."
"Are you suggesting that I am Kira?"
Light chuckled. "Why not? You're Kira, I'm Kira, Misa's Kira. We're all Kira!"
A crazed spark intensified the teen's gaze, mild hysteria tainting the air, and they stood chest-to-chest in silence. Light's breathing, heavy and quivering, seemed muted by the tension. Despite the almost-breakdown, it was impossible for L to tell which was which, prey or predator, as their gazes focused on the other and chests almost brushed with every shaky breath. It seemed as though both were ensnared, and both were victorious.
L would've felt complete and total victory, had Light not, in the moments of crazed silence, slithered closer. The chain rustled softly, a subtle warning cry, and the detective, gripped by that all-familiar, all-crushing illness, stood frozen. Something about the moment held him in thrall; he couldn't move, could hardly breathe.
His mind raced, screaming and screaming for his body to do something, anything but melt under the touch of blood-stained hands, anything but the still surrender that gripped him. L never pegged himself as a man who stood paralyzed by fear; he'd always assumed that, in a moment of fright, of fight-or-flight, he would choose fight, not paralysis.
Of course, it wasn't fear that gripped him, though L wished it was. Oh no, that damned sickness kept him close to the murderer and contaminated his heart, his muscles and skin and bones.
"It pains me that you think I'm Kira," Light murmured, voice smooth and soft. "I think it pains you too. Why, then? Why do you condemn me without cause?"
"I have cause," L muttered, finally inching away from the teen. "I've always had cause to believe you are Kira. This conviction brings me no pain, only determination to see you brought to justice."
Hurt flickered over Light's features and remained, carving itself into every nook and cranny. "The justice you seek for me isn't different than what Kira would desire for a criminal."
"If that is your fate, then so be it."
There was a moment of hesitation before the hurt expression hardened with something akin to anger and determination. "You're lying."
So are you. "The punishment of Kira would be death, most likely. That is not a lie."
"I'm not talking about that." Light strode forward, closing the slowly-gained distance between them in seconds. "You're not as apathetic as you act, L. I saw it; I saw you today, in the mirror."
"Mirrors distort, as does imagination," L replied, heart thumping wildly.
Light shook his head. "I know what I saw. You want me. You want, and you can't handle it. Is this Kira accusation your way of punishing me for your feelings?"
L narrowed his eyes. So this was the reason for the strange behavior. Emotional sabotage and simultaneous gratification of suppressed urges. Relief swept through the detective briefly, understanding placing him on solid foundation. His mind could focus at last.
The sickness, however, gripped every other part of L. While it wasn't unusual for L to divert all attention to his mind, the burning ache pulsing through his body lingered in the background, refusing to fall away as Light pressed on, falsely emboldened by the calculative silence.
"I believe Light-kun is projecting unrequited feelings onto me in the hopes that I will reciprocate."
Light laughed, a flash of pain concealed with smiles and revealed through the grating, forced laughter. It was through the flashes L lost confidence; emotions fleeting often indicated sincerity with the teen, as suppression and masking immediately followed, techniques common in the world. It was the lingering emotions that held insincerity.
L felt himself relaxing under the smoldering gaze, the calm before the storm lulling his senses into a false sense of security. The teen shifted closer, closer still, and the detective's mind was torn from control, dragged kicking and screaming into the background as L's flesh burned.
"I think you're lying again," Light murmured, dipping his head so that their lips hovered centimeters apart. Revolting heat demanded the detective close the distance, but a sense of pride, salvaged from the wreckage of his thoughts, held him back, kept his eyes open and body still.
Light's eyes bore into L's, dark and empty. The detective saw nothing in the gaze, nothing to indicate life or passion, yet the caress of Light's hands on his cheeks spoke of sickness shared. In the empty, cold depths of the stare, L saw death and destruction, saw his demise. The truth of Light's crimes, of Light's identity, protected L only as long as Light permitted it to; they both knew absolute proof was unlikely to be obtained in time to save the detective.
L looked into the eyes of a murderer and saw himself, saw his bones encased in the marble splendor of Light, saw himself as a conquest and nothing more.
Light leaned closer, and L thought the distance would be swallowed up by the teen, slaughtered like everything else that enraged him, but he pulled away instead, smirking. Patting the detective's head like a dog, Light moved past L and climbed into the bed without putting the bottles and brushes away. Surprised at the retreat, L stumbled behind Light, hands shaking.
Looking up at the detective through shiny, perfect locks, Light smirked triumphantly. "Goodnight, L."
"Goodnight, Light," L murmured, frozen by Light's side of the bed, looming over the boy. He found himself longing for something, longing for closed distances, and he couldn't stop. Logic refused to dissuade him from indulging in feeling his desires sweep over him like a wave, decimating everything in its path. He saw his death in the boy before him, inevitable, and he found himself breathing slow and soft, as though afraid to wake his demise.
The boy's eyes had fallen shut, and the soft light from the bathroom caressed his features, casting light and darkness on the moon-like skin. His breathing, slow and steady, softened the tense silence.
L's mind fell silent at last, but the victory was empty; his flesh faded into stillness, the fiery longing leaving charred remains.
L's eyes burned as he stared at the boy beside him, burned from emotions suppressed, burned like that of a mortal gazing upon a god and dying in a burst of flames.