Part 04 – Complication
Edited and Reposted 11.13.09
Light never has trouble sleeping. Or at least, very rarely. Or, rather . . .
Frankly, the sentence should be amended entirely, and then there wouldn't be so many exceptions.
Light never has trouble falling asleep. By the time the end of the day rolls around (usually at about midnight or one), he is dead on his feet and blinking often, occasionally even biting down on fingertips to keep himself awake.
He already feels like L is just humoring him by babysitting him all the time; so it comes as no surprise that he tries to interrupt L's work and irregular sleep schedule as little as possible.
So by the time L finally does realize or decide that they need to go to bed, Light is generally more than ready. They go through their nighttime routine—brushing teeth, pyjamas, medicine in Light's case and sometimes, in L's case, a shower—which is so normal and so much like what they used to go through every night that Light's chest sort of aches when he lets himself think about it for too long.
When they finally do settle into bed, Light, aided by medication and mental exhaustion that comes from trying to keep his thoughts in order and logic-driven all day, slips into an easy sleep. And he stays that way for a few hours, until of course the nightmares start.
In this one way, L envies Light. No, not true. There are several reasons why L envies Light, but this is one of the most prominent. L does not stay awake working because he enjoys it and doesn't feel tired. He feels the exhaustion as keenly as the next person, but his mind rarely lets him stop working. There is too much to think about, too many circles of logic and thoughts to peruse, too much weighing so heavy on him that his limbs feel dead and he wishes even harder that he could sleep.
Instead, L pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps arms loosely around them—a childish pose, but a comforting one—and he watches Light.
Light is most at peace, and consequently most like his old self, when he sleeps. L is fascinated by the way his eyes flicker underneath the lids or how his hands and feet twitch, just barely, as he slips into the REM cycle. L watches the minute expressions on Light's still-sweet face as they flash past almost too quickly for him to catch. He notices the rise and fall of Light's chest as he breathes, and each time Light inhales, L exhales, because he is so relieved that Light is still alive, still breathing easy.
It stays like this for a few hours, and in that time, L himself usually slips in and out of consciousness, usually while still sitting up. There have been a few occasions where he has actually laid down and gotten a good solid night's rest, but those incidents have been few and far between.
L is always startled into full wakefulness, however, when Light's nightmares start. There is no pattern to the symptoms of these terrors. Sometimes Light's gentle twitching becomes more defined, sometimes he'll start shivering. And then there are the verbal cues. Very rarely does Light actually talk in his sleep. Generally it's just stressed mumblings or even pained whimpers. And sometimes, he'll just start screaming, which has scared the shit out of L on more than one occasion.
L doesn't wake him. He doesn't because he's figured out that unless he allows the nightmare-memory to play out, the next time Light falls asleep, it is right there, waiting to be picked up again, like a film put on pause.
And besides, L hardly needs to wake Light, since Light does it himself within a few minutes of those symptoms. Sometimes he'll jerk awake with wide, unseeing eyes. Sometimes it takes a few tries and a lot of blinking before Light drags himself through the murky waters of medication and sleep deprivation and breaks the surface of consciousness. Sometimes his own screaming is so loud he wakes himself up.
L used to hold him during these nightmares—because it used to help him, and he used to be able to fall back asleep in L's loose embrace once the horror of the dream-memory had faded a bit. But gradually, gradually . . . it stopped working. Light became more defensive and embarrassed and . . . well, frightened seems too strong a word, but L doesn't know what else to call the quiet, panicked emotion that sometimes flashes through Light's eyes when he wakes to find L holding him.
And now, Light is becoming sensitive to touch altogether. He flinches when L so much as lays a hand on his shoulder or even when he sits very close. L has sought in vain to find the cause, to discover why Light has made this slow transition from desperate kisses in the middle of the night, which they had done together a few times after Light had been released from the hospital, to starting when L brushes gentle fingers across his palm.
And the strangest part of it all is that sometimes when he does come into physical contact with him, L can see the conflict in Light's expression and body language—he can see that Light is fighting himself, likely arguing internally, but over what L cannot tell. L can never know, then, if Light pulls away from him because L's touch now disgusts him or because of his own shame or fear or personal code.
It's all very difficult and, in L's opinion, needlessly complicated.
However, the fact still remains that one good thing comes out of all of it, and it is that L does fall asleep easier when he's listening to Light's easy breathing.
Which is why he's having no luck whatsoever in the sleep department tonight.
L doesn't like being away from Light. It makes him nervous and jittery and from what Watari told him, Light acts similarly in L's absence. He's only ever had to leave the house a few times to work on cases alone, and then it was usually just for a day or two. He would leave Light with Watari for whatever reason—generally because the case he was working on was the legal case for the higher-ups at Crowley's Institute.
He had to leave this time, though. He had a strong lead on where Crowley was and he needed to be there, studying the evidence himself, since he doesn't trust the officers he's working with to catch every little detail L knows that Crowley would have put in there. He'd had to go—it was inexcusable not to.
Light, who was too used to L's intermittent leaves of absence to make a big deal of it, had reacted surprisingly well when L told him that he had to leave the country for a few days.
L sighs and stares again at the ceiling. It has 12 identical and symmetric cracks all lined up near the center. He can tell that sleep is not coming, that he will just waste his time waiting and counting sheep. With another sigh, he leans over the side of the cheap hotel bed and retrieves his laptop, which he uses to delve into the internet and police headquarters' mainframe. He wonders briefly what Light might be doing, but decides quickly that that train of thought is just worrisome and depressing and he actually misses Light, even though all they do lately is fight. And even though L's only been gone for a few days.
Shaking his head to clear it, L focuses on the screen. He needs to get some work done or his lead and subsequent excursion will have been for nothing.
Light is justifiably anxious. L is gone. He's working on a case involving the man that made five years of his life hell, and what's more, this old house that seems so comfortable when L is there to fill it now seems dark and too big, too empty.
But when Light meanders into the living room the morning after L has left, he's startled to see a shock of red hair over the edge of the couch. And when he gets closer, he is considerably less surprised to see that it belongs to Matt, who is sort of sitting/reclining/falling off of the sofa as he wrestles with a handheld. As he walks around to sit into one of the armchairs, Light turns his head to read—yes, it's a Nintendo product, and yes, Matt is playing Mario. Again.
Matt doesn't glance at him, but Light can see a flicker of his eyes that means he's aware of Light. Light doesn't mind so much being ignored; it's actually something of a relief after the intense scrutiny he's generally constantly under. Finally, the little handheld emits a little ding of victory, and Matt grins and looks up.
"Hey," he says.
"Are you my babysitter?" Light asks, his voice sarcastic.
Matt considers. "Would you feel better if I glossed it over or would you prefer a straight yes?"
"I'll take the straight—no, you know what? Why don't you try glossing it over, I'd like to see that," Light decides.
Matt grins, but then his face becomes very serious. "Light, don't be ridiculous," he says. "L knows that you don't need a babysitter. I'm here in case anything goes horribly wrong. Don't mind me though—it's not as though I'll be checking in on you every hour per L's instructions. Just go about your typical business."
"That was a terrible attempt at sugar-coating it," Light tells him, relaxing back into the chair. "Now, would you prefer to have to comb the house for me or would you give me a bit more freedom if I let you know where I'm going?"
"Option 2," Matt decides immediately. "L worries too much."
"I know. I'll head to the kitchen for some breakfast in a bit and then I'll be outside on the grounds for an hour or two. I like to walk in the mornings."
"'Kay," Matt says, eyes already back to his game as he selects a new level. "At what point should I panic and start running around like a headless chicken?"
"Never," Light says firmly. "At no point should you run around like a headless chicken."
"Well, then, at what point should I begin looking for you, making sure that you haven't died?" Matt asks, voice somewhat distant as his fingers begin flashing over the handheld.
"If you don't hear from me by noon, you can press the emergency fail safe button," Light says wearily. "I'll check in with you by then."
Matt pauses the game to smile at him. "Hey, look," he says, "I'm sorry about all this. But thanks for not making it harder than it has to be. I'm not gonna hover, okay? I don't even have to really leave this room if you'll check in like you said."
"Okay," Light says, almost smiling.
"How are you?" Matt asks. "And L?"
Light shrugs. "Okay, I guess. Not much difference." If Matt notices the frustration in his voice, he doesn't say anything about it. "How's Mello?" Light continues, remembering the little he's learned about small talk.
"Okay," Matt says, lips curving into a contented smile which Light is almost sure he's unaware of. "He's getting really pissy because he's on another case with Near."
"I thought he was in the Mafia," Light says.
"For a bit," Matt confirms. "But it gets old and after awhile, you just don't want any more blood on your hands. It was making him a little crazy."
Light has to fight down a laugh at Matt's words, and instead just allows himself to smile. "He has a conscience?" he asks.
Matt shrugs. "I guess," he says. "He was pretty religious before he came to Wammy's, and even there, he always prayed."
Light frowns, considering this. "Why did he get into that business in the first place, then?" he asks.
"Part of it was getting back at L," Matt tells him. "L chose Near over Mello as his successor, and Mello didn't want to live as a second-best detective or Near's subordinate. So he did something that he knew Near could never top and something L couldn't judge him on."
"And now?"
"It's like I said. It was weighing on him, and it gets really . . . depressing after awhile. More than depressing. Being submersed in violence, getting used to killing people with your own hands . . . it cheapens everybody's life, including your own. You get to the point where you don't care how dangerous something is, because your life doesn't matter. You almost hope you do die."
Light stares at him for a moment. Matt spoke casually, his expression light. "I see," he finally says.
Matt flashes him a grin. "Sorry," he says. "I'm sure you already knew all that."
Light almost just nods and walks out, but then he remembers the social skills he's trying to learn, so he gives Matt a faint smile. "I suppose I did," he says.
"I get used to analyzing other people's emotions—or Mello's, at least," Matt explains. "He feels a lot, and very strongly, but he isn't in the habit of expressing it other than with violence."
"I suppose it's lucky he has you then," Light says.
Matt's lips curve a little higher. "I've never thought of it that way," he says. "I'm usually just glad to be along for the ride."
"I'm going to get breakfast," Light says, changing the subject once his patience for small talk runs out. "Do you want anything?"
"I'm all right," Matt says, voice distant as he devotes most of his attention to the game again. "I ate already."
Light is almost out of the room when he remembers. "Oh, you can smoke in here if you want. L doesn't like it, but I don't really care."
"Thanks," Matt says, pulling out the carton and lighting up.
Light nods and walks out.
Thanks to Matt's nonchalance and inattention, by and large, Light is alone. He's surprised that L has allowed him this degree of freedom, particularly after the all the arguing and tension between them over the past week. And even before Light found out that L was a liar, their relationship had been . . . strained.
Light is increasingly struck by both the similarities and the dichotomy between L and B. In the beginning, when L first broke him out of Crowley's Light didn't even think about B. He hadn't seen him in nearly two years at that point after all—since when he'd refused to speak, Crowley had confined him to his room.
Of course, Light had thought that L was B when he'd first come to visit Light's cell. He'd taken in the white t-shirt and jeans and had wondered where B had gotten the clothes, and why Crowley would let him wear them at all. But although their voices were similar—both deep, both emotionless—L's held a warm humanity that B's words couldn't grasp.
But after that first meeting, after Light realized that it really was L he was seeing, not the imitation, he'd pushed B out of his thoughts altogether.
And during the first year or so living with L, Light hadn't thought much about B either. How could he? He was too focused on daily life and finding a medication that worked and trying to keep himself from flying to pieces to visit the past more than he did in his nightmares.
Gradually, though, B and other memories from the Institute crept into his mind, even when he tried to staunch the flow of thought. Gradually, his dreams held more and more of B, the imitation, the creation—who wasn't as good as L, but who he had accepted when L was no longer available to him. And gradually that started affecting the way he saw L, too. He would move to kiss him and find that an image of B, grinning and crouching on the bed, was in front of him. He'd recoil, and L would look confused, and it just wasn't worth the trouble or the pain.
Now, Light has trouble with the two identities. It isn't as though he can't tell them apart—he's not that far gone. But B was every bit as important to Light as L had been, albeit in a completely different way. In fact, Light had spent more time with B than he ever had with L, since he had seen him consistently for three years.
B had been . . . terrifying. Exhilarating. Alarming. Entertaining. Twisted, intelligent; torture, his only reprieve—the list of opposites went on and on. B was accessible where L was closed; he was strong in areas that L refused to address; he was the shadow, and L was the figure. That list of dichotomies went on too.
Light shakes his head a bit to clear it and turns back to focus on the computer screen in front of him. He finished hacking L's computer an hour ago and now all that remains is to sort through the cryptic information to find out anything and everything he can about Crowley's case. In the back of his mind, Light thinks that L likely didn't tell him because he didn't want him to panic or get hurt—but that is his voice of reason, and it is often lost or crushed amidst all the other opinions and voices and sides.
Light skims the document in front of him, trying to ignore how his eyes feel heavy and how his body seems unwilling to move. He glances at the clock and his eyes widen in surprise. It is nearing one a.m., which means that he's been working for nearly twelve hours straight at this point. Light considers going to the kitchen to get something to eat, but eventually decides that it is too much effort for too little satisfaction.
So instead, he stands and heads towards the bathroom where he washes and brush his teeth and takes his pills dutifully, grimacing only very slightly as the water he swallows them with sloshes a bit in his stomach. Whenever he takes them, the pills always feel a bit stuck in his throat—but after much consideration and examination, Light realizes that the pills aren't stuck. He's just feeling the shame and frustration at having to live on three different medications.
He pauses, and then showers too, just for the hell of it. He showered earlier that day—or, rather, early yesterday, but warm, running water has always comforted and relaxed him. It even works now, to some degree. He takes his time with the shower; usually he speeds through his cleansing routine, since he knows that L is waiting for him to begin working. And Light already feels ashamed enough that he is encroaching on L's life—he doesn't need another reason to irritate L or throw him off schedule.
Now, though, with no L and no pressure, Light washes his hair, soaps down, and then when everything essential has been taken care of, he just stands under the forceful spray of the showerhead, letting the water run down him, relax his muscles, even calm his barely-twitching fingers. Once the water is completely cold, Light reluctantly steps out of the shower and dresses for bed before heading slowly to the room he shares with L.
Light isn't completely delusional; he knows that he's just stalling, putting off going to a very empty room that L should be in but isn't (because he's working on a case thousands of miles away; a case that should be Light's but isn't).
As angry as he is with L, and as focused as he is to finding Crowley, Light still feels very empty as he slips into his side of the bed. Realizing that he has a great deal of extra room in the now too-big bed, he moves to lay in the middle, tries it for a bit, and then scoots back over to his usual place. The middle feels too strange, too lonely.
And quite apart from missing L . . . this house really does scare him to some degree. He knows that he's just being paranoid, but he can't help it. The corners are eerily dark, there are strange noises all throughout the house, and the emptiness and shadows send little shivers down his spine. He doesn't like being alone, and especially not at night, when he is made to feel vulnerable because of his nightmares.
With all the odds stacked against him, Light is pleased and surprised when he begins to drift almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
And then the dreams start.
This time, it was raining, hard; too much for the prisoners to be allowed outside. But they were allowed one hour inside the main eating area to run around or talk or, in most people's cases, try to escape and/or maim the guards.
Light did none of this. He sat calmly at the table next to B, his hand raising every so often to press cool fingers to the hot burning feeling on his throat, where B had bit him a few days previous.
B's eyes followed the progress of Light's fingers with focused attention, and when Light realized what he was doing, he dropped the hand immediately.
"I know you didn't work alone," B was saying. "I know you must have had an accomplice, because L said so, and I don't know that he makes mistakes like that."
"So?" Light asked, making eye contact though he had to push some hair out of his face to do so.
"So who was it?"
Light grimaced as he thought for the first time in years about Misa. "Fuck off, B," he said, no real emotion behind the words.
"I take it you don't want to tell me, then?" B asked, after he'd finished laughing. "A sensitive subject, perhaps?"
"Don't make me repeat myself," Light said dully. After the visit B had visited his cell a few days ago, Light had been . . . justifiably nervous—actually, justifiably terrified and absolutely disinclined to entertain his questions and quirks.
B moved closer to him, and when Light visibly flinched at their proximity, he laughed again. He lifted his fingers to trace lazy patterns on Light's throat as Light watched him through suspicious, frightened eyes.
"I don't suppose there's anything I could do to convince you to leave me the hell alone?" Light asked.
"I want to hear about that accomplice of yours, Light. Who you deemed . . . worthy to carry on your noble cause," B said, sarcasm dripping and stinging.
"Shut up, B," Light said dully, looking away.
B's fingers tightened where they had been loosely around his neck. "No," he murmured, and Light stared at him for a moment before trying to jerk away. B's grip tightened. "Tell me, and then I won't have any questions left for you today."
Light's breath was already catching slightly at the oxygen deprivation, and he took as deep a breath as he could before he said, "I didn't."
B's fingers loosened a little. "You didn't what?" he asked.
"Choose," Light said, jerking away again. This time, B let him get to a distance at which he felt fairly comfortable.
"Who did?" B wanted to know.
Light hesitated only the barest second before he sighed and answered—it wasn't as though this mattered anymore. "No one," he said. "She found a Death Note all on her own. She found me all on her own too. I was more or less blackmailed into working with her."
B moved a bit closer. "Oh?" he asked, the breathed question punctuated with a brief giggle.
"Well, I couldn't very well allow her to go to the police or make any other stupid mistakes. And if I tried to just kill her to get rid of the problem altogether, she had . . . protection."
"Interesting," B said, and Light suddenly realized that they were sitting close together again. He gave B a level gaze. "B."
B's eyes were locked with his as he cocked his head to one side in a way horribly reminiscent of L. "Hmm?" he asked. Light looked down and away. Most of the time, he was grateful in a horribly twisted way, that B was very much like L, but right now, he found himself hating the resemblance.
"Fuck off," he murmured, his voice sounding weak even to himself.
B lowered his head until his face was scant inches away from Light's. "No," he said, sounding satisfied. "I do what I want. I always have."
An hour or so later, Light manages to drag himself into consciousness. The dreams he keeps having about B are in such accurate detail, down to the angle of his head, the feeling of the pads of his fingers.
Light shivers and reaches for the glass of water that he keeps on the nightstand for just such an occasion. Instead of hard marble and cool glass, however, his fingers encounter something warm, pliable, soft. He almost flinches back, but realizes that L must be back.
Yes, there. He can barely make out L's figure in the dark gloom of the room, and as he watches, L comes around to his side of the bed and sinks down next to him in his usual crouch.
"How did everything go?" Light asks, voice sounding weaker than he had meant for it to be. He clears his throat and tries again. "Did you solve the case?" L had better not have solved that case or Light is going to be pissed and he's going to have to take extreme measures, which he has meticulously avoided doing so far.
L doesn't respond; he just cocks his head to one side and regards Light with dark eyes.
Light looks at L's eyes closer, opening his wider to improve visibility. L's eyes are . . . different. Darker. He doesn't know quite what to make of it, but he doesn't have sufficient time to consider because L trails thin fingers down his cheek and then leans over and kisses him.
Light doesn't know quite what to make of it. L's behavior is strange to say the least. But his lips feel very warm and very nice against his, and his hands are gentle on Light's jaw and throat. Tentatively, Light allows himself to relax, and opens his mouth slightly, which is when everything changes.
Suddenly, L's hands are no longer gentle and the kiss is rough, possessive, and now Light just wants out because there is one other thing horribly wrong with it.
The kiss tastes like blood.
When the thought surfaces and connects with memories and a spiderweb of emotions and pain, Light pushes away and sits up straight in bed. He is breathing hard and he makes an effort to calm himself before he speaks.
When he has finally stopped taking in gulps of air, he just says one letter.
"B."
And although he can't see it, Light can hear B's smile in his answer. "You taste different," B says. And laughs.
A/N: Why hello my friends (and possibly enemies . . . )! Here's the latest installment of As the World Turns. Or, y'know. Silence. Whichever. I've realized that I haven't been putting disclaimers on here. Is that bad? Am I going to be arrested by the Internets Police?
We'll see, dear readers. P.S. This time I'm threatening kitties, per several people instructions. If you don't review, the kitties will suffer. Think about it.