Authors' Note: Hello, lovelies! Sorry for the note-age, but a couple things have come up repeatedly in reviews, so I, the terrifying Tierfal, will be addressing some of that stuff. :)
(a) This fic was written as a birthday present, so it's not exactly the next Scarlet Letter, but we had a lot of fun; (b) said birthday snuck up on us, meaning we ended up writing the whole 16,800 words within the space of about two and a half days, much of it at ungodly hours of the night; (c) Yes, there are two of us - hi, there!; and (d) Eltea read the novel in the original French, but the fic mostly follows teh plot of the movie because Tierfal vaguely remembers what it is. :P
Thanks to all you wonderful readers and reviewers, and enjoy! :D
"L?" Light was confused. Why was the door to L's dressing room locked? He tried again, rattling the handle. "L, are you there? Is something wrong?"
There was no answer.
- - - - -
It was cold in the passageway, the chilly, moist air of underground clinging to L and making him shiver slightly. There were lights on the walls, soft and golden, and he felt as though he was either in a trance or a tomb. His mysterious companion continued to lead him on with a cool, spidery hand, and L followed quietly, obediently, too dazed and overwhelmed to resist, as they plunged deeper and deeper underground.
Before long - or after an eternity - L detected the unmistakable lapping of water. They turned another corner, his tutor's hand cool and smooth around his, just tight enough to be firm, and the stone passageway opened into a stone room - a room that consisted of a slippery quay and a canal of dark water that rippled softly through twisting channels extending farther than L could see.
His tutor gave him a moment to take it in, the flickering white candles on the walls making his eyes glimmer with something like fond amusement, and then led the way to the black, varnished boat that bobbed placidly in the impregnable water of the canal.
L let his tutor help him in, the boat rocking slightly as he settled uncertainly. When his tutor deftly joined him, the boat didn't seem to move at all.
His tutor retrieved a long pole from the belly of the boat, touched it to the edge of the quay, and pushed off. Water murmured against stone walls, candelabras' burdens sputtered softly, and the boat glided forward.
Eyes wide, L looked around, trying to take everything in. The dark water. The damp walls. The soft glow of the candles. He could feel eyes on him, beautiful crimson eyes that were likely dancing with amusement, and he pressed his own shut, wondering if he was dreaming. It certainly felt unreal enough.
When he looked again, they were passing under an iron portcullis and into a cavern filled with old furniture, rich fabrics, and more candles than L had ever seen in his life. With a final push of the pole, the boat slipped up against the shore, and L's mysterious guide stepped out and offered him a hand.
Tentatively, L took it.
His tutor drew L gently up the pebbly beach, beyond which lay what was clearly a room despite the way it opened upon the water. A delicate hand roved over the objects and ornaments affectionately, the other tugging L gently along the pathway that wended between sumptuous hangings, more wrought-iron candelabras, and sheaf upon sheaf of parchment blanketed in musical arrangements and marginal notes in a neat, meticulous penmanship. His tutor paused before the grand organ, a long finger grazing a key at random. One of the countless compositions slouched against the intricate gold filigree of the music stand. L's tutor turned to him, another small smile lighting the marvelous eyes.
"I write for you," he whispered. The hand that had rested on the organ sought L's face, cool fingertips skimming his jaw. "I don't think I have had the chance to tell you… You were extraordinary tonight. You were perfect."
L wanted to thank him, but found that his throat was stuck with amazement and settled for nodding gratefully, eyes wide. His tutor laughed softly, a low, secretive sound.
"My little performer…" he murmured, fingers moving to slide down L's throat, over his voice box. "My angel. You look even more lovely now than you did on the stage, and I am the only one who gets to see you like this." He smiled softly at L's bewilderment. "So lovely…"
L tried to swallow, but his mouth was desperately dry. Trying to wet it felt like drinking a desert.
His tutor touched his hair, which was still remarkably cooperative even now. "Though I'd hardly complain about your usual style," came the murmured comment, "this is truly stunning. It frames you, you see - and the contrast is even more pronounced because it is so dark…" He smoothed a few strands back and slid his fingers down L's cheek, following it down his neck again. "…and you are so pale." He smiled, gently and indulgently but with a hint of deep-seated remorse. "Are you afraid of me, my angel?"
L cleared his throat. "No," he whispered, wondering where his voice had gone to desert him now, wondering what the question really meant - wondering whether his answer was a lie.
His tutor only smiled.
Nervously, L smiled back.
"You're lying," his tutor murmured, lifting a finger to run across L's lips. "You are frightened. Don't be, my angel. Do you think I would hurt you?"
"I - no," L stammered. He hoped not.
"Good," the scarlet-eyed creature said softly. He was using his fingernail now, running it lightly, gently, almost imperceptibly back and forth along L's lower lip, then around, tracing the outline of his mouth.
L tried for an agreeable smile. The restless fingertip followed his lead, then swooped over a cheekbone and down along his jaw to settle below his chin, nudging it upwards.
"I would never hurt you," his tutor whispered.
L tried to nod without seeming as though he was avoiding the hand beneath his chin. His tutor leaned forward and touched cool lips to his forehead, their pressure light and brief like the batting of a butterfly's wings. It was… sweet, and tender, and momentary, and when the moment passed, L met endless ruby-red eyes once more. Again they softened as they searched his face. Two enterprising hands rose this time, each sliding into his hair to trace an ear.
"We'll sing together, my angel," L's tutor told him, the light of pure inspiration in those drastic eyes. "We'll show the world what that can mean."
L nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak. There was something frightening about his strange teacher, something dark and dangerous and deadly, but there was also something irresistible about him, a beautiful, hypnotizing allure. L found himself becoming lost in those unnatural eyes. Their owner smiled.
"Beautiful," he murmured, circling slowly to stand behind L, running a hand down and around his protégé's neck as he did so. "No wonder they love you. But you're mine, my lovely one; all mine."
Warm breath coiled in the shell of L's ear as his tutor leaned in, sliding his free hand down L's shoulder, down his arm, around his waist, pulling him gently closer until L found himself flush against his teacher's chest. The deft fingers, fingers that might make an organ sing like the voice had coaxed him to do, slid across his abdomen, the silk of his costume docile beneath them, the beading shifting obediently.
Soft lips replaced the soft breaths. "Perhaps I'll share you sometimes," the voice whispered, the voice that had unearthed such power and inspiration in him that he couldn't tell whose success it was. He felt the lips pressed gently against his neck curve as his tutor smiled. "And then again," he chuckled softly, "perhaps not."
L wasn't sure whether to be thrilled or terrified. An uneasy combination of both rose cold and fluttering in his chest.
Slowly, the lips at his neck began to lay a trail of small, soft kisses. L froze, bewildered, and then started slightly, blood rushing to his face, as the next kiss became more forceful. He shouldn't like this; he should be disgusted by this - so why was he burning with some kind of strange, horrified fascination that bordered on anticipation?
Heat spread from the point of impact, and L thought wildly that surely there would be evidence, a rash remaining where the warmth had been, some telltale sign of his uncertain enjoyment of this pleasure that he knew was wrong—
His head spun; fragrant smoke drifted into his eyes, and he blinked, trying to shake it away, his tutor's fingers tracing a snaking pathway up his temple, twisting gently in his hair, tilting his head for better access to his neck. L could feel his pulse beating against the insistent mouth pressed to his skin; his eyelids were unreasonably heavy, his head desperately light…
His last conscious sensation was that of being very warm and very cold at the same time.
