Disclaimer: ... head/desks until forcibly restrained by security
Warnings: Murder, sex, death, spacing that makes no fucking sense whatsoever, and now swearing.
I'd like to be able to say that all characters depicted in sexually explicit situations are the age of consent or older, but I can't. So instead, I'm making them alljailbait.
--
Maybe it was love.
He wasn't quite sure.
The last time he'd had this taste in his mouth he'd woken to discover that it was really A's insides.
Now that he thought about it, what he'd felt for A was probably as close to love as a freak like him (or L) was ever going to get.
A always helped him with assignments B pretended not to understand.
So it really shouldn't have been that surprising when A decided to help with something quite different from schoolwork…
--
The white tile floor reflected his shaken gaze.
He was slumped on it, confused, naked, crying, and most of all hopelessly broken.
Desperately trying to pretend that the trembling hands moving down his body belonged to L.
He'd gone to sleep contented, knowing that L was slumbering somewhere in the orphanage.
He thought he'd have nice dreams.
Of course, B had always liked macabre things.
Arcane things.
Blood-spattered things.
Things that were as twisted as he was.
His definition of nice would have surely given L a heart attack.
Heart attack.
Heh.
He vaguely remembered that L had twenty-six years left.
Here lies someone dead.
Forty-three years old.
Quite a long time for someone in his profession.
A's numbers would expire long before that.
He couldn't calculate the exact dates.
Nor the years.
All he knew was that A would die soon.
B probably would as well.
His successors would never get their chance to be him.
But then, L would never need them anyway.
Never need him anyway.
That was clear from what had happened…
B had drifted into a sound sleep.
His dreams soon dripped red.
But this time they were a bit different.
This time L was in them.
In him.
And what he wanted to do to the detective had nothing to do with the knife under his bed.
It was an odd dream.
Felt real.
L's hands were soft on his chest.
Tongue fierce in his mouth.
But then the mistake happened.
L's hands slid between his successor's legs, and B moaned.
L woke up.
And so did B.
In L's bed.
Naked.
Sweating.
Panting.
Wanting more.
He looked up and saw the numbers, the name.
Then looked down and had his dreams shattered even more.
L wasn't going to finish.
L wasn't going to let him finish.
L wasn't going to do anything with him ever again.
Not with that look of disgust on his pale face.
It was quite an ugly face.
There were only a few years between them.
Their faces had slightly similar features, but L's was messed up.
The colors were all wrong.
Wide black holes in the center.
(Eyes couldn't possibly be that dark…)
Matching lids.
The rest a pasty white.
Horrible.
Needed some red.
He started to laugh.
Euphoria.
Hysteria.
Madness.
Even the pain between his legs was comical.
He hurt so much he couldn't stand it.
That made it all the funnier.
Until A walked in.
Glanced at him.
Walked past him and put the toilet seat and lid down.
Sat upon it, fully clothed.
Dragged B into his lap.
Pulled his hands back.
Played with him.
Stroking gently.
Putting minimal pressure on him.
Then he built that pressure up.
Hands moved hard.
Fast.
Keeping up with B's rocking hips.
One hand kept moving while the other one worked into B's mouth.
No sound here.
Wouldn't want Roger to find out.
He'd be oh so jealous.
A whispered to him.
He wasn't sure when the words pouring into his ear were replaced with A's tongue.
It ended as suddenly as it had begun.
B fell limply against A's chest.
Toes slowly uncurling.
He panted out L's name.
A was warm and hard beneath him.
He snuggled his back into that warmth, that hardness.
"Oh no you don't."
Before he could react, A had stood up and leaned against the wall, turning B around as he did.
He kissed him, tongue masterfully working inside his mouth.
Though A was the same age as L, and would be eighteen next year, B still had to wonder where he had learned this.
He was about to ask when A's skillful tongue made its way to his nipple.
He moaned.
Who cared where it came from?
After his entire body was subjected to A's wandering tongue, fingers once again made their way into his mouth.
He welcomed them.
Licked them.
Coated them with saliva.
'Mine.' He thought.
Then they were retracted.
A's now-slippery fingers slid inside him one at a time.
Moved.
Stretched.
Did everything they could to keep him moaning into A's open mouth.
Then A replaced them with something much different..
Pain.
Screams.
Movement.
Friction.
Bliss.
Afterwards they collapsed.
B snuggled into A's chest.
Found comfort.
Even on the cold floor.
Light-switch flicked.
Whispers.
Sleep.
L had no place in either of their dreams.
--
A had helped him that night when he found him in the bathroom.
So B helped A when their roles were reversed.
He'd found A in the same spot as he had been a few weeks ago.
A was muttering gibberish.
Random words.
Phrases.
Times.
Dates.
Punctuated by L's name.
Carving an L.
Into his wrist.
L would cause his death.
How lovely.
But A was confused.
He was crying too hard to see.
Cutting the wrong way.
Over the bones.
Not nearly deep enough.
His lifespan was almost out.
He would not survive no matter what.
B didn't want him to die.
Didn't want him to die.
Want him to die.
Him to die.
To die.
Die.
…
--
When the darkness failed he found himself thrusting in and out of A's corpse.
A's wrists were the colour of jam.
So delicious looking that he was tempted to eat them.
Many jagged but shallow cuts the wrong way.
One single deep line.
Perfectly straight.
Perfectly right.
But not an L.
More like a crucifix.
A beautiful, beautiful crucifix.
Hallelujah.
He tried to laugh.
Found his mouth overflowing with a raw taste that proved to be A's intestines.
Swallowed them.
Pulled out of him.
Froze.
There, calmly observing his grotesque actions, was L.
It wasn't the same boy he'd found himself in bed with.
Not the one with the horrified holes for eyes.
He realized that that one had been a fake.
This was L.
He just knew.
He stared at him.
Trying to obsorb every detail.
L stared back.
An expression of curiosity on his ugly face.
(B could wear that face much better.)
In his hands were the clothes that B had left when he fled the detective's room.
He handed them to him, then produced a towel.
B simply stared at it.
L sighed.
Moved closer.
Wiped the blood from his backup.
Stained the white towel forever.
Tossed it aside.
Dressed him.
Held him tight.
They stood like that.
Who cared how long?
Embrace.
Tears.
Confessions.
Contrition.
Lies.
Footsteps.
They looked up.
Roger was coming, calling out to L's alias as he made his way over.
L opened the window.
Roughly shoved B out of it.
He grabbed the towel on his way out.
He turned and saw L pick up the knife, a scalpel stolen from somewhere, and greet Roger.
"Hello."
"Ryuzaki, where have you been?"
"Please do not call me by that name, Roger, I don't care for it. I will choose my own alias. I have been here. One of my successors committed suicide. I took this opportunity to further my medical knowledge by dissecting a specimen."
"…"
Roger was stunned.
He let L usher him out.
B stared at their backs.
He clutched the towel tightly, his thumb tracing letters on it.
Ryuzaki…
He quite liked the name.
Much better than Beyond.
Much better than Backup.
Much better than…
What happened over the next few weeks was a blur when he tried to remember it.
All he could ever recall was that, at that moment, L turned and smiled at him, licking off some of the blood that had transferred from B's hair to his face.
Then he was gone.
That was the moment that B fell madly, hopelessly in love with L.
That was the moment when he knew that he had to kill him.