Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. If I did L would have lived. And there would have been more pairings.
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White. The paper in front of him is white, snow-white, as white as the bare walls in his room. Unmarred. Unblemished.
Almost hesitantly, the boy with the copper-bright hair places a somewhat pudgy finger on its surface, careful not to crinkle or mark the smoothness of the sheet.
His mind is blank.
Shifting his gaze to his peers, most of them are thoroughly engaged in their creations—the boy to his left busily absorbed in painting his household members (quite badly though he notes; the faces are splattered with colors, features obscured with a chaotic mix of black, orange, and red), the girl with brown pigtails to his right smeared various blobs of violet and pink and turquoise onto her sheet (an explosion of glitter and watercolors, done haphazardly with no planning or forethought).
When class 1B of Daikoku received a reprieve from sums and multiplication tables (popular rumor was that their sensei had eaten some inexpertly prepared blowfish the night before and was currently resting in an emergency room) the substitute, a foreigner from America, decided to introduce the children to art and the concept of "expressing themselves". After the soft-spoken, auburn-haired lady distributed to the first-graders paper and a rainbow assortment of paint, the class of 1B spent the first five minutes in silence, unsure of how to proceed (after all, they had been taught since they could talk that anything that couldn't be graded or displayed on a college resume was inherently useless). However, many soon filled the blankness of their papers with jewel-like hues—sapphire blue, ruby red, amethyst purple.
But his was still blandly white, the pure emptiness undisturbed.
Finally, his right hand grasped a brush, dipped its bristles into a container of paint. His honey-colored eyes narrowed, his gaze intensely concentrated on the paper as his fingers conducted the brush in slow, even strokes.
The paint he had chosen was black—ebony black, the dark paint contrasting with the white of the sheet.
Finished, he slowly placed the brush down, careful not to let a single excess drop damage his work.
That night, as he slept soundly in bed, a stray beam of moonlight illuminated the paper taped on his door. Black on white, in perfect penmanship:
Raito Yagami.
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Yeah, this is a weird idea I had of Light as a little kid, and what he would do in art class…please review!