Nietzsche once said: "And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee". But fuck Nietzsche, and his quotations, and the morning light, stinging eyes like pricks.
Light leans on the kitchen counter and stares at the boiling kettle, as if the force of his thoughts could heat the water faster. He remembers to put six spoons of sugar in the coffee and stir it clockwise. He remembers that the toasts should be slightly burnt and generously sprinkled with dry caramel. He remembers that cream for carpet burns lies next to toothpaste and lube. Light imagines how L squeezes the clear gel onto a brush and gags himself on the strawberry flavour.
The hot mug burns his palm, but Light doesn't care; he walks through the dark hallway and opens the door with a kick — the blow is softened by packages lying in the corner. Light stands in the middle of the room, watching as L turns over, covering his head with a blanket, jerking his leg and letting out a small snore. Light's head is overflowed by an avalanche of pain, his temples squeezed by invisible claws, and he hisses whether from anger or despair.
He comes close, very close; his feet touch the wooden bed frame and Light hangs over the lying body like a baleful shadow. L feels it; he scrunches up his nose, but doesn't wake up. Light wants to spill the boiling coffee on his face, tends the cup and a few drops fall on the pillow (Light wants it to be sulphuric acid). He imagines the unattractive, pale foreigner's face redden as skin comes off in layers, exposing the creature within (although, Light thinks, there would be no difference at all).
In the end he lets go of the mug. It breaks into two larger and thirteen smaller pieces and the handle scratches the floor. The sound cuts thought silence and L takes a sharp inhale, but doesn't move, playing dead — like a lazy dog, like a cat that shat in your shoe. Light pictures himself covering the impassive face with a pillow as he sits atop and L — alive and well once again — leaps up, flapping both thin arms that would certainly hit Light (it would hurt, but that's a necessary sacrifice). He would let go and L would definitely punch him in the cheekbone.
The dream goes up in smoke and Light gets down on his aching stripped knees on the mattress and leans over L, exhaling in his face. He squints when L presses his lips into a thin line and Light props a foot on his solar plexus, waiting for the blow to come; he wants L to grab him by the hair and pull, and pull, and pull. But L simply opens an eye, lazily, and smiles venomously.
"Light-kun, I can't breathe."
"That's not my problem", — Light mutters under his breath, leaning over to bite L's neck and hoping that it hurts.
He twitches, feeling cold fingers on his back, and hisses in pain when L's nails scratch his skin. Light knows there will be crimson streaks left and he can't wait to see them; he will be standing in front of the mirror, trying to reach the scars running down his spine, entangled and embroiled like roots, looking at the imperfections on the perfect skin and laughing when L comes up from behind and fucks him over the sink, and fucks him in the shower.
L exhales sharply when Light sits on his lap and L's erection presses against his thigh. He chuckles and kisses L on the chest and lower, and lower, and lower.
Feeling L's hot cock on his tongue, Light thinks: fuck Nietzsche, oh, God, fuck him.