.

"The wind in its leaves
is dry, arrhythmic, and sad.
Everyone, it whispers, has their reasons,
a few of which are bad."

-Vijay Seshadri, "Ailanthus"

4

Linger near the clorox


Yesterday did not happen.

Light was not tied to a chair, he did not tell L anything about his medication, and he most certainly did not whimper and moan while L gave him a fucking handjob, of all things. No, no, no. Nothing happened. The hull has not been breached, Hamish. Return to your station, go about your business. L is in a cell for insolence and nothing more, and Light is going to fucking kill him.

Light runs a hand through his hair, agitated, and his fingers hit the fuzzy patch on the top of his fucking head and if Light doesn't cool down L really is going to die. Light paces back in forth in his study, a solid line from one end to the other over and over again.

Light did not—Light did not want to do that. He didn't want it, he didn't like it, he didn't, he didn't—nothing happened. L needs to learn his fucking place. He can stay in that cell until he rots. Light can forget all about him, and he won't be like before, empty and lonely and forever, because now L is a thing Light owns, a thing Light commands. Light can keep L. Can do whatever he wants with him.

The thought is calming. Light has simply been too lenient, too weakened by his own pathetic happiness at having L back, and there's no need for any more of that. No more ridiculous feelings of guilt, because Light is not guilty, and Light does not have any regrets. He could have handled the situation better, originally, when L was screaming and hissing and spitting, but he had just been in shock. Not anymore. Light is in charge now and L just needs to accept that.

Light firmly ignores the small, bitter part of him that whispers, maybe you shouldn't have, maybe he didn't have to die, maybe you didn't have to be alone all this time, and maybe you liked that, just a bit. Maybe it was thrilling, to hand over control—just the once—to have it taken from you—

No. Light doesn't need to think about this, doesn't need to think at all, but he can't stop. There's a feeling in him, a pull, drawing his eyes to the top drawer of his desk. But he can't take any more of his prescriptions, has already taken enough, this morning. Everything feels slightly fuzzy around the edges, distant and zoomed in all at once, every step like falling, a little bit. Light is fine, but he probably shouldn't take more. He starts to open the wine cabinet before changing his mind and reaching for the heavy oak doors of his liquor cabinet. Highland Park Single Malt Scotch, aged 30 years. Nearly 40000 yen. Light picked it out because it was ridiculously expensive and he must have the best.

He pours himself a glass and continues pacing, drink in hand. Whisky must be savored, and he swirls the alcohol in the bottom of the glass and takes a whiff before downing it. He coughs a little. Whisky is a new endeavor.

He pours another glass.

Two years ago—Light can't get it out of his mind. Everything crashing in, everything going wrong. Misa had died, and Light didn't love Misa, didn't even like her, but she was the kind of person you got used to, after a while. It had been unexpected, her lifespan just run out—her fault, not his, her decision, her choice—and things had been so strange without her, so quiet.

Light had found new supporters, Kiyomi, first, and then Teru, but things didn't get better. Light had slept with them both, using the same tactics he used on Misa to keep them loyal and compliant. Kiyomi had done nothing for him, no more than Misa, at least; too gaudy, too much slinking around and fucking screaming and pulling his hair and shit. But Teru, if he had been face down, with his black hair wild and mussed, like L's, and he was so skinny, and Light could pretend—not that he ever did, but he could have—

Another glass, and Light is already feeling the first two. It takes so little to get drunk, on these pills, and whisky is strong anyways, but Light is fine. The room is a little crooked but that's okay. It doesn't need to be still, because Light is moving too.

Light had just snapped. Those children, L's successors, showing up in his fucking sleep, L's scream echoing in his ears, everything spinning around him, everything was fine but it was all wrong, it was all wrong. He'd locked himself in his apartment, refusing to see anyone, criminal after criminal dying at the stroke of his pen, Ryuk laughing manically in the background—and then he'd written down everyone's names, the task force, Mikami, Takada, his father, everyone. He'd sent his family a notice. Yagami Light, deceased. Went out in a blaze of glory, fighting Kira with his last breath. So sorry for your loss, but your son was a gift to this country. Here's a check.

Light gives up on savoring his whisky and takes a swig straight from the bottle. He hasn't even thought of Mother and Sayu in so long. He's not about to start now, anyway, and he pushes them out of his mind. Light has more important things to focus on. He is the god of this new world and he has responsibilities.

Light slumps down on the ground, resting his back against his desk and jiggling his legs with manic energy. He's definitely on his way to being drunk and he wouldn't mind if L was here right now, although preferably tied up. He's not sure what the appeal is. The lure of an enemy, he guesses. It must be, because L is pale and sharp and too fucking insolent for Light to pay attention to, otherwise. He's always so quiet in bed, face flushed and hot, holding his little noises in until he can't anymore.

Fuck. Light is really horny, but the room isn't straight enough for standing up right now. He tries to summon Hamish, but the intercom button is too far away. Whatever. Light doesn't need him. He's already got whisky, and he can get L in a minute.

An uncertain amount of time passes, pleasant and spinning and hazy. Eventually, Light finds himself standing up, not quite sure how that happened. The journey to L's cell happens in flashes—a glimpse of hallway, a moment leaning into the elevator door, a code entered with shaking fingers—and then there is L, curled up on his side.

L's eyes jolt open, wide and black and piercing. He has icing all over his face and down the front of his shirt, and Light is going to lick it off.

"Hello, Light-kun," L greets him, but Light doesn't respond. He takes a few menacing steps in L's direction. At least, he thinks they're menacing. He's not sure how steady on his feet he is right now. All Light knows is that the anger from earlier is far from gone, merely tempered by lust, hot and thick and pulsing through his veins.

L quirks an eyebrow. Light's vision zooms in on the eyebrow, and it's all Light can see, just barely there, pale and thin and growing back in. He's not sure that his vision normally does this, but that's okay. Light has always been special. No sense in questioning this new ability.

"Light-kun?"

The rest of the room snaps back in to focus, and it's overwhelming, swirling around him too fast. Everything is moving too fast. L's voice is strange and distorted, wavering in the air for too long.

Light stumbles towards L's cot. L sits up, looking alarmed.

"Light? Are you okay?"

"Light?"

Light vaguely registers L's tone of concern, and he tries to respond, but it's hard to push sounds out. He manages a vague, slurred mumble. Talking is unnecessary. That's not what Light is here for.

He tries to push L down onto the mattress, partially falling into him. He's going to fuck L. In a minute. Everything is moving in slow motion, and Light waits for it to stop.

L is pushing Light off of him, and the world is moving, Light can't—there's the ceiling, he doesn't want to fall, why can't everything just stay still, and everything is moving past so slowly and so quickly at the same time. L is making noises and standing up and Light can't right now. He doesn't have time for this. He has a very busy schedule.

He hooks an arm around L's leg, pulling him back down. He lands on top of Light with a whoosh. Light makes the sound back and holds him as tightly as he can, but it's hard to move his arms in any direction. L is peering into his eyes and his fingers are in Light's mouth and does L think he's going to be on top? Because Light might not mind that, right now. Everything is so much work. This way he can just lay here. Light arches his back, trying to convey his interest. L's fingers are pressed to his neck, three fingers, maybe six, no, definitely four—

Hamish is in the room, now, and that is not what Light wants. This is definitely not going to work because really Light is not going to sleep with Hamish. Maybe some other time, sorry, call back later.

More spinning, and L, L, where is L, he needs to come too, where are they going, where is L—and everything moving, a prick in Light's arm, quick and quiet and dark.


Matt takes a swig from one of several half-empty energy drinks littering his desk and lights a fresh cigarette from the end of his finished one. His hair is matted and greasy, his shirt stained and torn, but his mind is sharp and focused, intent on his final purpose, his all-encompassing goal.

Kira.

The four years between now and Mello's departure from the orphanage are a blurry haze, insignificant except for the final image of Mello that's burned into Matt's mind, a photo of Mello's pale, ruined body on a metal autopsy table.

Matt can't—he can't do this. Without Mello. The love of his fucking life and they were children. Matt can't stop fantasizing about what Mello would be like now, thin and lithe and his yellow fucking hair all soft and long and caught up in Matt's fingers. They never even fucked, just fooled around, and now they'll never—they won't—

The cigarette almost drops out of Matt's fingers. He takes a long, shaky breath and focuses on his computer.

He'd spent two years shuffling from one hovel to the next, searching for Mello in the depths of the underworld. Finally, Matt had managed to sniff Mello's trail to the very end, and what he found—an unmarked grave, an unidentified body pulled from a river in a tiny, poverty-stricken American town and laid to rest in a quiet, unattended ceremony—did not line up.

The cause of death was listed as either suicide or accidental drowning—no drugs, no signs of a struggle, no bindings holding him still and compliant, just a pale, swollen face and wet hair. Mello, though, was an excellent swimmer, and he would never—he would never just give up. Mello, bright and shining and vibrant, he couldn't, he wouldn't. He'd promised to return for Matt, he wouldn't just—he wouldn't.

Mello was murdered, and the only question was how. Matt was not third place for nothing, though. He had to work harder than either of the two would-be successors to maintain a steady ranking, always just below Mello but far above everyone else. He had to stay close enough to remain in Mello's circle but not high enough to make him an enemy, passing himself off as smart enough but too lazy to be the next L. He is brilliant, and after almost two years of investigation he has reached two conclusions: Kira is now L, and Kira murdered Mello, somehow. Matt is certain that Kira can control the actions of those he kills, and certain that he can kill by other means than heart attacks. Japanese police files reveal Kira's tests of his power, and the sudden, unreported spike in strange, accidental deaths of minor criminals indicate that Kira's power far outreaches that of a simple heart attack.

With no Mello—no Mello, and the loss has ripped out Matt's insides, torn apart the fragile strings holding him together—with no Mello, Matt's only objective is revenge.

He will lure Kira out. He'll kill as many people as he must, will wreak as much havoc as it takes, and eventually, Kira will come, disguised as L.

And when he does, Matt is going to kill him.


L is lost, empty and tired and uncertain. Maybe it would be best if Light died on his own. All of L's obligations met, his sins washed away in Light's blood. But he can't let Light die.

L is perched on the medical bed with Light, one arm chained to the bedrail. Hamish clearly didn't know what to do with L, Light's intoxicated demands contradicting his previous orders. Eventually, he'd given in to Light's increasingly hysteric pleas for L's presence, and had taken L upstairs too. L is uncertain how much Hamish saw, or what he thinks after hearing Light use L's real name instead of his alias. L isn't sure he wants to know.

Light murmurs in his sleep, turning into L. L strokes his hair with an inexplicable, heavy feeling of tenderness. Light's bangs are matted with sweat, pasted to his forehead. He should be fine, is mostly stable now. There's an IV hooked up to his arm, but it's just saline. Hamish said that all there was to do was to flush Light's system and wait for him to recover.

L doesn't—he's never felt like that before. When Light had collapsed, L had panicked, adrenaline rushing through his veins, his world crashing in, the room too bright and Light's breath echoing in L's ears. He'd thought that Light was dying. Dilated pupils and sluggish pulse and alcohol on his breath, and why did Light do this, why would he let this happen? L can't, he can't—what if this is his fault? Did L's actions cause this, disrupting the delicate balance that held Light afloat? This can never happen again. L longs for the chain, longs to know that always, always, he will be there, can guide and protect and why does he feel like this, why does he care so much—

L needs to be calm. Light is fine, and L is fine. If Light dies, it will be for the best. No more Kira. But L can't, L can't live in a world without Light, he's not—he won't—he won't. L won't let it happen. He needs to turn the tables on Light, somehow, needs to take control of the situation. He has to.

Light is stirring, now. L hovers over him, noses touching, legs curled up awkwardly into Light's chest. Light's lashes flutter and his eyes open, big and hazy and amber.

"L?"

Light's voice is raspy and soft. L touches his lips, which are cracked and dry. Light closes his eyes and leans his head back, clearly enjoying the touch. L runs his hand along Light's face.

"What do you remember?"

Light cracks one eye open and considers it.

"I'm not sure…what happened," he admits. "Why are you here?"

"You asked for me," L says simply.

Light appears to accept this explanation, his face relaxed and calm, eyes shuttering closed. He reaches an arm up for L.
"Come closer," he manages.

L accedes, moving so that his body is fully aligned with Light's. Their cheeks are touching, and Light's stubble feels nice on L's face. Light moves around a little bit, hardening against L's thigh, and L rocks into him slowly. Light's head falls to the side, exposing his neck, and L kisses the side of it. He grinds down harder, and Light lets out a low groan, moving his hips up into L's.

L laves his tongue against Light's salty skin, moving from his pulse to his ear. Light murmurs something incoherent and L interrupts him with a kiss, soft and slow and gentle. He's holding Light with loose fingers and flat palms, their lips moving together in an easy rhythm. Light's hips start to move again, and L rucks his hospital gown up, exposing him easily. He wraps a hand around Light and his back arches off the bed, head digging into the pillow.

L pulls Light's head forward, touching their foreheads together. Their faces are so close, Light's breath mingling with his own, and L can't, he can't lose this. He's holding Light like something precious, running one hand along his side and up to cup his jaw.

Light's eyes are clouded with lust, his breath coming hard. L kisses him again, and this time it is rushed and messy and delirious, and Light was almost gone, he was almost gone, and L will never let it happen again. He breaks away from Light, chest heaving, to search for something to ease the process. There's medical lubricant in a cabinet that L can just barely reach, his chained arm stretched taunt, body tilted at an angle.

He strips before getting back in the bed, leaving his shirt crumpled up on the chain. Light is just watching him, head angled in L's direction, eyes slitted and hazy. L unscrews the plastic cap and squeezes the thick gel onto his fingers.

There's a feeling inside him, an emptiness, hollow and grating, and he has an urge to be taken, to be filled again. The feeling is foreign, almost unknown to him, and before he died, before Light killed him, he'd never known it. L needs certainty, needs Light to be firm and unyielding and all-encompassing. Light's legs are already spread, but L crawls over him and takes Light's hand in his own. He coats Light's fingers in the gel.

Light shakes his head. "No…too tired. You."

Ignoring him, L guides Light's fingers where he wants them, groaning and falling forward into Light as he is penetrated. There's a sense of infringement, still, a feeling of invasion, but this is alright, this is what L wants. It's still strange and new, this idea of touch as a thing that he wants, and chooses, and craves, even. L has always been his own, self-contained and far above. Now he is pressing Light's fingers into himself, breath stilted and heavy into Light's neck, and when Light can get up, he wants to shower with him again.

Light's fingers stretch him open, but it's not enough, it's not enough—he uses his own fingers, pressing deeply, and Light's eyes are wide and shocked, his breath held entirely, hips stuttering upwards as L strokes him slick and hard—and then L is lowering himself onto Light, stretched and filled and warm. His face is caught in the crook of Light's shoulder, and he moves against Light slowly, rubbing himself against Light's stomach, Light's arms pulling him close and tight.

L feels overwhelmed, everything rushing around him—Light could have died, could have been gone forever, and L will not, he will not let this happen ever again, never, never—and he feels Light hit a spot inside him that makes everything go white.

L is still for a moment, catching his breath, drowning and lost and uncertain, and then he is moving again, slow and steady at the same angle, until Light is pressing up into him impatiently, L held so close and tight it's painful, and everything is—everything is—

L comes with a jerk, bearing down heavily onto Light. Light thrusts up harshly until his own orgasm hits, and they stay like they are, pressed tightly together, until Light has been still for several minutes.

Slowly, L pulls off of Light, and peers intensely into his eyes. Light looks more aware now, less cloudy and confused.

"Do you remember?" L demands.

Light nods, still-red cheeks flushing slightly more. He's uncomfortable. Good.

"Did you do that on purpose? Were you trying to hurt yourself?" L's voice is harsh and urgent. He has to know. If Light—if Light was trying—

Light shakes his head. "No, no, it was nothing like—"

L doesn't need to hear anymore. He grips Light by the throat and pushes him into the mattress, holding his wrists down easily as he chokes and struggles. L leans down until his face is right against Light's, his eyes taking up the whole of Light's vision. He's purposefully cutting off Light's air, crushing his windpipe to convey the seriousness of his message.

"Never," L hisses. "Never do that again. Or I will kill you myself. Nod if you understand."

Light nods, face slightly off-color from the lack of oxygen. L releases him.

He turns on his side and gags, taking deep gasps of air. L waits until his breathing is regular, if still a little shallow, before curling around him from behind. He folds him tightly into his arms, letting Light recover from what L knows was more of a blow to his pride than to his body.

Hamish bursts into the room at that moment, but the danger has passed. Light waves him away, and he leaves after checking Light's vitals and sending an unreadable look in L's direction.

Once he's gone, Light takes a deep breath, body tensing.

"I'm sorry," he croaks, face hidden against the sheets.

L kisses the back of his neck and breathes in the sharp scent of Light's sweat mixed with yesterday's cologne.

"Never again, Light," he warns. "I mean it."

Light doesn't answer, and L doesn't expect him to. He runs his hands along Light's bare skin, enjoying the feeling of their bodies pressed together, and in this moment, L is okay. He notices the shorn patch of hair on top of Light's head, and he runs his fingers through it gently. Light is alive, and L is alive, and they will—they will figure this out.

Eventually, L is released from his bed-chain, and they go to shower in the adjoining room. Light is distant and awkward, his face averted and his hands clenching and wringing. The bathroom is all white tiles and gleaming chrome and sanitized smoothness, and L, pale and naked and thin, blends right into the stark, utilitarian environment. Light looks like a person from a dream—out of place with his tan skin and doe eyes and soft curving thighs—and L lays a hand on Light's arm, trying to ground him in the room with his presence.

"Light."

Light says nothing, doesn't quite meet L's eyes.

L pulls him into the shower. They wash separately, backs turned away from each other, and L doesn't know how to cross this distance, doesn't know how to bring Light back here with him.

He tugs at Light's arm and holds out the shampoo to him, silently. Light looks from the shampoo to L and back again.

"Please."

Light squeezes shampoo into his hands and reaches for L, and suddenly, everything is right again. L leans his face into Light's chest, letting gentle fingers caress his scalp, and yes. L can do this. He is strong, and he is the world's top three detectives, and he is going to save them both.

They get dressed quietly and Hamish interrupts them as they're leaving the medical room.

"Excuse me, sir. There's been an update on the traffic signal case."

Light takes the proffered folder and quickly scans the accompanying report. L reads it over his shoulder.

The hacker targeted America this time, disabling traffic signals in major cities across the company. His message only appeared in Chicago, though, blazoned across electronic billboards leading into the city:

DON'T B SHY

It's even less to go on than last time, and the body count has risen dramatically.

Alarms are going off in L's head. B, what does B have to do with this.

"We need to go to Chicago," L mutters.

"That's what he wants," Light tells him. "It's probably a trap of some sort."

L nods. "If it is a trap, we need to spring it in order to draw him out."

Cases are comfortable, familiar, and they fall into step easily, building on each other's conclusions. L has missed this with an ache that reaches down to his bones. As they sit down at the kitchen table together, surrounded by case files and computers, Light tangles their fingers together, rubbing the back of L's hand briefly before turning his attention to the screen.

L smiles, a tiny quirk of his lips that would be invisible to anyone but Light. It's like old times, but better, lacking the uncertainty that darkened their Kira-chasing days.

After several hours, L stands up to get a snack. As he stands, though, his head swirls, eyesight cutting in and out, Mello's face staining his vision—there's a pang that cuts through L's heart, sharp and electric and cold, and he cries out—Mello flashes in front of him, gold hair and blue eyes, laughing and cruel—and L faintly registers his body hitting the ground, Light shouting, footsteps—and everything goes black.


The last thing Mello remembers is standing on a bridge, watching himself as if from a great distance, feet trudging towards the edge, everything tinted blue, his mind screaming no, no, no—and then water, swirling and cold and rushing into his lungs, and his last thought had been of Matt, his broken promise to return.

Now, Mello is naked and cold and miserable, splayed out in a dumpster like a murdered prostitute. He takes in deep, gasping breaths, relishing the burn of air in his lungs, and tries to ignore the pain rushing through his limbs like fire. He doesn't know how this happened, but he must have been dragged out of the river and left here for the police to find in the morning. He waits for the strange blue haze to return, commanding him to step off the bridge, taking over his mind and controlling his limbs, but nothing happens. Mello is his own now. Relief rushes through him, almost overpowering the agony that leaves him gasping and limp.

He forces himself to sit up, losing the contents of his stomach in the process, and fights his shaky limbs as he struggles to stand up. Mello doesn't know what's happened, how he's here or what is going on. He needs to get out of this dumpster. He needs clothing.

Mello eventually manages to pull his way out. There's a stack of concrete blocks next to the dumpster, and Mello picks one up, carrying it a few feet before having to set it down and catch his breath. He repeats the process, making his way out of the alley.

Mello is strong, and he can do this. He's thrown back to his childhood, not long before Whammy's. He'd been eight or nine years old, a fresh-faced runaway stealing food and sleeping in empty subway stations, when he was given his first taste of helplessness in the form of two drunken men who'd laughed at Mello's flailing fists. It was then that he'd realized—no one was coming to save him. Mello had been left in an alley with blood trickling down his thighs, but he'd gotten up then, and he is getting up now.

He leans over and takes several deep breaths, preparing himself for a burst of energy. Then he throws the concrete block into the glass door of a restaurant. Quickly, he forces his way inside, heading straight for the kitchens. Ignoring the wail of the alarms, Mello finds a uniform in an unlocked closet and steals the warm coat hanging outside the walk-in freezer. He scoops up as much food as he can carry and slips out the back door just as the police are arriving, blue lights flashing into the hollows of the building.

Mello runs as far as he can, losing himself in the maze of alleyways, lungs burning, limbs aflame. When he can no longer stand it, he curls up in a doorway, pulling the coat over his face and cradling the food in his arms. He takes slow, measured bites, and when he is full, he pulls discarded cardboard from where it is piled up in the alley, and makes himself a shelter against a wall. Mello needs to sleep, needs to recover, because in the morning, Mello is going to get back to work. He has a plan. He needs to join the Mafia, and then he is going to beat Near. That little albino brat better watch out, because this time, out here in the real world, Mello is going to win.


AN: So sorry for the delay! My internet died on Tuesday and I only just got it back. Hopefully it will stay alive this time! Anyway, thanks so much for reading! We finally got a little bit of the real stuff, aka MORE CHARACTERS YAY. I know it was probably kind of all over the place but I was pretty impatient to get this out.

Also, just as a point of clarification, everyone comes back at the age they were when they died. I figured that made the most sense, generally, and it gives me something interesting to work with as everyone is coming back to life.

PLZ review and let me know what you thought! It means a lot to me, especially since this is my first story in this fandom. Specific questions I have include: What do you think of my Matt/Mello characterization? Were you okay with having so many different viewpoints in one chapter?

Thanks again!

-M