Disclaimer: Death Note and all content contained therein is copywrite Ooba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Julius Caesar is the intellectual property of William Shakespeare, since I don't think they had copywrites back then, and if they did, they're probably no longer applicable.
Requisite Notes That I Omitted from the Original Version: Two things in the way of translation: although it's pretty common knowledge in the fandom that Raito's given name translates to "light", it's not-so-well-known that his family name translates to "god of night". Also, in the English instructions on how to use the death note, it originally says, "The human whose name is written in this note shall die," but the word used in the Japanese translation is "nohto" which means "notebook"; it also just makes more sense in English to say "notebook".
"Beware the ides of March."
That's all you've been able to think about on this day since you read that damned book years ago. Nothing's ever happened.
It's four o'clock in the morning, and you're lying in bed, watching the miniscule changes in L's posture and the muscles of his back and shoulders as he types at his laptop. He's not wearing a shirt, and you think that his skin looks like snow. You wonder what he's typing, and to whom.
"You woke up screaming at three thirty-three."
It is merely a statement of fact, and there is no feeling to it. He does not turn to face you, but you feel a slight tug at the chain that joins you to him. You don't understand what he means in doing this.
You run your fingertips in disjointed circles along the black stone of the floor. You wonder what it would look like if he were to lay on it. Black against white, fading to grey at the edges. Everything in sharp contrast.
"I smelled peach blossoms."
You've gotten so good at lying in the time you've spent with him. You pretend that you care whether or not your life is still your own. That you are no one's captive, least of all his.
You hear a few clicks punctuate the silence, and he turns toward you, a pale-colored candle in hand. It is lit. He makes a vague gesture toward it.
"Peach blossoms."
Another point-blank, depthless statement of fact. This is your liaison. You share everything and nothing.
He sets the candle next to you, and the flame creates a tracery of gossamer reflection along the handcuff that encloses your left wrist.
He lies down next to you, his movements slow and careful, as if he is afraid that he might break himself. You idly observe that the way in which his hair fans out against the floor makes it look like he's floating in black water.
"You're lying."
You turn your face until your nose begins to press against the floor painfully. Your hair falls into your eyes, and your world is tinted in blurred streaks of sepia. The flame is reflected in his eyes, black everywhere except in the sun. They're the same as yours.
"You're a detective; figure it out."
He gently tucks your hair behind your ear, and you press your face into his palm as best you can. You close your eyes, and open your mouth slightly.
"You're a walking contradiction."
You tilt your head slightly in agreement. You are god of a realm in which the days are dark, and the nights full of light. You are his closest friend, but dream that you are his dearest enemy. You are a monster in the fractured recess of past and memory, a savior in the gravity of the present.
You are the right hand of God and he is the left.
"I dreamt of demons."
His expression does not change. He continues to watch you, his hand pressed into your hair.
"You've been lying to me since the day I met you."
You see the shadow of a tall figure along the wall opposite you. It seems to dance in the flickering firelight.
You try to keep your countenance blank but do not succeed.
"There's someth-"
He moves his hand so his index and middle fingers are pressed to your lips.
"You should try to sleep."
You look from him to the wall, but the figure is gone. You feel something pressing uncomfortably against your ribcage.
You tug at the chain and move closer to him.
"Only if you will."
He closes his eyes and vague smile graces his lips. Something in the back of your mind tells you to kiss him.
"For you, Kira."
You feel a tightness in your throat, but you don't know why.
You listen to his breathing until it is slow and steady and slide a hand between your body and the bedding. You pull out a notebook, black with white writing, tinted orange by the candle.
You burrow under the white sheets and stare at the cover. It reminds you of the floor and his skin. You can see his hand in silhouette through the thin barrier of fabric.
You begin to read:
"The human whose name is written in this notebook shall die."