Disclaimer A/N: I do not own Death Note, or anything else, yadda yadda. This is written in the perspective of L. Don't like it? Suck it up.


"Paradox"

I'm not sure why I hate him so much.

It makes no sense, really. Why --how?-- could I feel so much pent-up emotion for one simple, singular, being? It hardly seems fair. I don't want to squander my emotion on one person, especially if I hate him.

It isn't fair.


There he is again: smirking, with a knowing gleam hidden in his dark, hard eyes. He is seated across from me and is talking lowly, condescendingly, but the words are simple white noise. I do not notice what he says. I'm too busy noting how his hair is perfect, his clothes perfectly unwrinkled and pressed.

Why does he have to be so fucking perfect all the bloody time?

I curl my hands into tightly controlled fists, jaw clenched painfully behind my perfectly blank façade.

Perfect.

Just like him.


It is late now. What time is it? Surely, well after midnight. I can hear the rain crying outside. Down the hall, I listen to weak knocks on my front door, and a low thump. I pull a pair of pants over my boxers and make my way to the door in silence.

He's there, slumped against the doorframe. His hair is matted against his perfect fucking face. He looks up at me, and I know I should close the door right now, but raindrops fall off his eyelashes. I can tell he wants to cry, but he doesn't. Those tears aren't his.

The rain is crying for him.


He's huddling by the fire now, a warm blanket wrapped taut around his shoulders. His head hangs down, eyes closed. He looks like a bruised angel.

I hate him.

My grip tightens on my coffee cup, and I take a practiced sip from it's burning insides. I can feel the coffee slide down my throat, and it closes it up like mortar. He lifts his head and looks at me, and his eyes make my chest hurt. He whispers my name and I slowly set down my coffee cup, and open my arms.


I hate him, but I comfort him anyway, allowing him to lean his cold and wet body against my dry one.

I hate him, but I tighten my grip on him instead of pushing him away when he presses icy lips to my neck.

I tilt my head back as he murmurs my name, whispering, promising, and his warm and moist tongue travels lower.


I hate his perfect face, even when it's perfectly fucking calm, eyes closed, mouth just a little slack. Just a little imperfect.

I hate his body, even when he presses closer to me, his naked chest pushed against mine, a single hand lazily trailing along my exposed hipbone.

I hate him because I know.

I know that, in mere minutes, he'll get up and leave to start his day.

I hate him because I know that it may be days, even weeks or months, before I get him to myself like this again. I won't see him until he decides to hide himself from his sins in my arms.

And tomorrow we'll be enemies again, like it should be. We hate each other, and our secret escapades are fake, fake, fake, and I don't care...

Why should I care?


I hate him because I love him.


A/N: Soo.. I wrote thisin about 20 minutes, eh? It's supposed to be set up in small snipets like that, so don't bitch about it.

-xTheMadHatterx