A/N Okay, I apologize. I am a liar, I admit that. I promised a certain chapter, and after I started writing on it again, it grew to monstrous proportions. For the sake of length, I have shorted it into two separate chapters. However, I will post both of them within a short time of each other, because I feel incredibly guilty over my incessant need to keep adding things left and right. Hopefully, my compulsive nature and it's tendency to over obsess proves beneficial in the end. I've been from Ohio to Miami, and everywhere in between and I've been horribly busy when I'm not driving! I really should be getting ready for a pow wow now...but I'm posting this chapter instead. See? This shows my dedication to fan-fic over really, truly awesome fry bread.
Aw, I love the reviews, I really, really do! That's why you will get two chapters soon, and may neither of them disappoint.
Hic Sunt Leones ~ A phrase often written on old maps to denote unknown territories which means "Here be lions"
This day was different from any other that he had experienced since that fateful night. After hours of decent sleep, curling contently within that awful avocado hued blanket, L finds himself unwilling to wake up for the first time in his life. He nestles further underneath the half covering his body, fingering the texture of the material beneath him in a vague attempt to convince himself that the object is indeed real. It works, and within a few minutes he fades back into slumber, warm and complacent for the moment. It matters not how long he rests, only that he is able to thwart the endless hours of nothingness with unconsciousness. It is a welcome relief, in such that he doesn't bother to analyze, for there will be plenty of time for conjecture once he is forced to waken.
After many hours, a yawn emerges from beneath the barely moving lump hidden beneath the green wool. A cautious eye peers from under the torn edge, to stare with trepidation at the water and the stale cake before him. He blinks slowly for a moment, before sitting up with a determined flourish of energy, hurriedly scooping up finger fulls of stale cake and icing before guzzling the chilled water with something just short of joyous exuberance. If he didn't known better, he could have sworn that the old confect had been the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. It no longer matters if the items are drugged, he can't taste anything amiss with either and his stomach is happy with his short relinquishment of apprehension. Perhaps if it is drugged, it will enable him to sleep longer.
L is satisfied with this reasoning, and he hides back below his only source of warmth. He savors the escape from the chilled air, relishing the soft fibers encasing his body and silently ponders. All those years he had access to a soft bed, clean linens, warm blankets and piles of voluminous pillows, yet the last thing to ever cross his mind was sleep. No, it had all been about the chase, the intrepid thrill of piecing clue after clue together to form a framework of guilt so that others could see. He had sacrificed the little things here and there to achieve his goal. Now he misses the relative ease and luxury he had once so easily ignored.
It had fascinated him from an early age, his ability to sense and assimilate leaps and bounds ahead of his peers. He understood in all embracing terms how this sense of knowledge isolated him from others around him, even those of comparable intellect. He had accepted his lacking in societal norms and the relative ease of privacy that solitude had afforded him. It had been so much easier, without the constant questioning to mire his efficiency. Others judging, his methods, the relentless way he would mentally pursue information without proper sleep or diet. Although he often told others that his high sugar intake was necessary to fuel his intellect, the other reason was that it helped to keep him alert and steadied his faltering glucose levels once his physical body had reached it's limit.
Had it truly been necessary to deprive himself of something so basic, so instinctive and comforting as compared to what this one simple act by Kira had done? It was pure lunacy to believe there wasn't an ulterior motive to Raito's actions, he had been astounded at first, but it made flawless sense. It was the same game they had started that day on the tennis court, the latent hostility. They would always be playing against each other, waiting for one of them to act so the other could counteract accordingly. However, there was no need for discovery now, this was the endgame. It was all or nothing, and no small act of feigned kindness would change the outcome. It was a lot like the humane treatment of cattle, right before they are lead to slaughter.
L isn't about to be duped by Raito's hospitable display of deception. His stomach feels a slight discomfort that he does his best to dismiss. He can easily rationalize Raito's motivations, the young man clearly wants him dead, yet it fails to explain the inkling of grief and sadness scrambling beneath his collected facade. Yes, he had befriended Kira during that time they had been bound to one another, although he always knew the boy to be incredibly guilty. All his life, he had spent alone and unchallenged, yet now that he faces certain death he is struck with the horrible realization that he had also privately desired for his deductions to be incorrect.
No, his current sorrow was for allowing himself to fall into this situation to begin with. His mind starts to lightly spin and he leans his head back and lets out a small utterance. It's simply a small sound, but it echoes off the bare walls and he realizes that it's the first sound he's heard since the beginning of his captivity. The hidden clock continues to tick relentlessly, damning the present with the precise division of an anonymous hour, bearing no distinction from one second to the next. It's really beginning to bother him more than simple annoyance, and he considers if Raito has purposefully arranged the cursed timepiece just outside the door to torment him, or if it's just highly coincidental. In either case, the effect is same whether it's intentional or not.
What bothers him more, is the darkly wicked glare of lust his captor had held him in. He has seen that look in the eyes of others, but never once in the younger man. On the contrary, not even Misa's tactic of adorning revealing attire or physically throwing herself upon him had seemed to make any impression on the teenager's repressed hormones. If anything, he had appeared bored and almost insulted by the constant invitations to intimacy, as if he was secretly repulsed by the mere suggestion of anything sexual with his adorable girlfriend. It was odd to consider, since most young men his age would revel in the opportunity to bed the beautiful model.
L had not been overtly shocked by such a confirmation. Kira wouldn't want to invest true recognition into anyone who was too far from his own intellectual theater, unless it was to further himself and his maniacal schemes for world domination. Raito might have started out with pure intentions, but the insidious allure of the Death Note had corrupted his once shining vision of a crime free utopia and tainted it with shades of arrogance and malevolence.
Raito had feigned interest in the young woman on his behalf, to "further the investigation."At the time, the guarded teenager had balked at the idea of leading the emotionally naive beauty on, but had relented with casual enough ease. As long as Raito put on a thick sugary coating of sincerity for his ever present adoring spectators, his newly recruited defensive backup aligned with the absolute minimum of required effort. He had made the necessary interactions with Misa, but the amount of disdain he regarded her with was obvious, his quick words and bare tolerance were evident to the detective's tingling perceptions.
However, to grant him with such hungered looks was absolutely ludicrous, it was nothing more than a nasty trick to throw him off guard. There was no deviation from the profile he had so carefully constructed of the power hungry psychopath. Kira understood the ready evidence that his inculpable alter ego had gathered from his months in constant scrutiny, the undeniable fact that L was truly an isolated individual, socially uncomfortable with direct contact and human interaction. What better way to test his vigilance and questioning nature than to overwhelm him within such unknown noetic territory? The knowledgeable detective easily comprehended the drives and motivations and the general mechanics of sexual behavior, but retained almost no personal experience pertaining as to how to respond to such advances. Indeed, he had never expected to receive such attentions from another individual, least of all his highly attractive male murder suspect.
Wait, when did he decide that Raito was highly attractive? Was it merely an accepted concept he had simply acquiesced to, for the overall agreement of the majority? There was no sense of attraction for the younger man, L refuses to allow himself to feel anything but hatred towards the killer, his possible cause of death. There can never be anything but pure revulsion between them, and Kira's entire purpose for containing him here is a testimony to that end.
Raito was arrogant, but Kira exceeded the usual bounds of vainglorious contempt. No, there was unspoken hubris that burned in those conceited golden eyes. L shivers when he remembers that lewd stare, and he resolves to shake the daunting memory with more applicable issues, namely the possible circumstances for escape and how to effectively nullify Kira without killing himself in the process. He had very little time in which to test the boundaries of the notebook, unlike Raito who had dually used the object from the very beginning to test his theories and taunt L into finding him. The added bonus of course, was to bring both enemies within spitting distance of one another, a challenge that L had readily felt up to facing. However, in his current position, that same anticipation hardly ripples through his collected thoughts, it is a simple situation of escape or die. He must succeed or die in the process of trying, there are no other alternatives.
The dizzying spin of his vision once again begins to overwhelm him, and he silently curses his thirst as the drug usurps the speed at which his mind usually functions. It would seem that lately, Raito had started to adjust the dosage of the tranquilizer to a level that kept him sedate but coherent, yet he can easily nap in the meantime to give his body rest. L rationalizes this as regaining his strength for the one perfect moment when his enemy slips, although he has never had to kill anyone with his own hands, he confidently believes that Kira might be the overall exception to the rule.
The weary detective smiles at the thought of strangling Raito, imagining the not so flattering look upon his otherwise fine features as the boy relinquishes his life beneath his pale, meticulous grasp as he curls up once again into his warm retreat. For once, his dreams are pleasant visions of murder and revenge and he doesn't allow his sense of conscience to override the conception of violence and rage, for he must be prepared in all aspects of what he might have to do in order to bring Kira's reign of terror to an end.
Time begins to pass very quickly, and sometimes not at all. L awakens every time Raito presents himself from that shining glorious doorway, it no matter where it leads to as long as it's away from that detestable cold concrete room. Although the process is not precise, he can hypothesize that his captor shows up twice a day to feed him and allow him to relieve himself, and estimates that over a week has passed since he became coherent enough to comprehend such a concept. He is pushed into the shower once, and allowed the privacy to wash himself in peace and quickly dresses before being escorted back to his loathsome position of being chained to the wall. There is such a security in the established routine that it takes him a moment to realize that the chain has grown longer and that a small pillow and another blanket have been added, as well as another meal and more bottles of water. L suddenly feels the need to say something, and it comes out as sounding more grateful that he readily intends,
"Thank you, Raito-san, for thinking of my comfort in a time such as this. I had half believed that you might leave me here to die after all."
Raito blinks in surprise, but then regains his sense of confidence and replies,
"That is not how I intend to treat a good friend. You have been a very good boy recently, it only stands to reason that I should reward you for exceptional behavior. Try not to place too much importance on such small gestures."
Although the words that come from Kira's lips tell him to trivialize these small acts of kindness, the sudden steely glint in that punishing stare tells him to do the exact opposite. Raito leaves without anymore explanation and L is once again left to ponder the bizarre behavior exhibited by his warden.
More days follow the exact same pattern, and L mentally chalks the time line up to almost two weeks, noticing that he is not the subject of anymore of those disturbing glances, and begins to feel somewhat relieved that perhaps Raito has decided not to pursue whatever ridiculous notions he had once held for psychological torment. That capricious idealization is quickly dispelled when there is a sudden change in the clockwork of the established routine, when L is pushed towards the bathroom that Raito has prepared for him, and registers that the tub is filled halfway with frothy bubbles. He takes a moment to shoot his enemy a confused look, but Raito's expression is serene and unreadable as always. The chain from beneath the sink is attached once his shirt is removed, and he waits a moment for seclusion. The moment quickly passes into minutes, and then begins to grow into a discomforting silence. Finally, L can stand it no longer and quips,
"Are you going to watch me bathe?"
Kira's complacent grin stretches across his entire face as he remarks candidly,
"I like to watch."
There is an uncomfortable chill in the cold air and L finds himself incapable of an immediate disarming reply. The detective realizes he has made a grievous mistake when his gaze meets Raito's and he swallows reflexively. Raito's eyes are dark with intent and the older man knows for certain the implication of those words hangs heavily between them. He is the first to break eye contact, as he turns away and decides that the best tactic is not to respond at all, for he is certain that anything he says will be twisted wildly out of context. He slowly slips his shirt off until it hangs off of one arm, suspended by the cuff. His kidnapper waits until L refocuses his steady regard with his to smirk and move forward, taking hold of him by the wrist in a steady grasp while unlocking the stainless steel manacle, before letting the garment fall to the floor and refastening it.
The detective warily observes his warden, his stance guarded as he looks over to the tub, full of water and bubbles. It's ridiculous to postulate any reason why he is being forced to bathe in such a frivolous manner, as a no frills but perfunctory shower would do just as well. L focuses on the frothiness floating across the warm water, small vapors of steam escaping from melting white foam as he unfastens his jeans and pushes them down with his underwear, fleetly stepping into the tub before swiftly submerging to regain his modesty. For a few brief, precious moments he is able to sit still and relax, the wet warmth sinking welcomely through his tired limbs. His hand reaches for the bar of soap and he shuts his eyes as his hands function mechanically to lather his skin and gently scrub.
His precise movements, although slowed ever so slightly by the substance in his veins, is still a graceful dance of those delicately thin digits, the look on L's face one of private bliss. It's been over a week since his gift of warmth, and now Raito grants him the rare privilege to sit in recuperative silence, body caressed by perfumed tepid liquid. The scent of burnt vanilla teases his senses brutally, but the illusion is too strong and desired to break just yet. He lets out an uneasy sigh, his slight consolation mitigated by the determined fixed gaze of his captor as he leans his head back and rests. L can literally feel those golden eyes burning in his direction, but ignores the sensation of a predator hungrily eying him as prey for the few gratifying minutes of physical solace. He cracks his eyes open ever so slightly, and abruptly jumps when he realizes Raito's sudden proximity, causing him to slip sideways.
Raito's hand immediately steadies his shoulder and L guardedly freezes in place. A few strained moments pass and he is all too aware of how his breath has quickened and he finally concedes and looks up at his captor, taking a few deep inhalations to calm his rapid pulse. Raito smiles, seemingly amused and quips,
"Relax, I'm not going to drown you. I'm just tired of seeing your hair in a constant state of disarray."
Raito moves behind the tub, and kneels down out of view. There is a frantic, almost panicked moment before the detective feels water soaking through to his head in a slow, gentle trickle. When those elegant fingers begin to work their way through his hair, and he smells scented shampoo he begins to realize that this sudden closeness is uncalled for. L makes a sudden effort to get up and complains,
"Raito-kun, there is no need for...ow! What the hell?!"
L exclaims again in pained protest as his head is jerked back forcefully, and he glares resentfully backwards at the younger man who holds onto his hair with deadly strength. However,Raito doesn't seem angry, and merely chastises him,
"Be a good boy and sit still. It would be wrong to insult my goodwill."
L huffs in response, but grudgingly leans back and permits the apparently deranged killer to shampoo his hair. It's tense and awkward, he's stunned and ambivalent as to how to prevent Raito's perverse desire to manhandle him. After a few moments, the gentleness of the act returns, and it starts to feel disturbingly pleasant. He feels those deadly fingers softly inspecting his healing wound, and feels oddly out of place when a distinct yet soft, melting voice filters into his senses,
"It's almost completely healed. I'm sorry I had to hurt you, but I didn't have much choice at the time."
The older man heaves in an unsteady breath and quietly remarks,
"Why are you keeping me here? Why is my corpse not rotting away on the floor of Task Force Headquarters?" He is cognizant of the cursory pause behind him, and that soothing voice delights his ears even as it deflects his inquiry with haughty disdain,
"My, aren't we feeling especially morbid tonight? I thought you would be thankful for once. So few people appreciate the simple gift of being alive, choosing instead to burden those around them with pain and inconvenience. You've never been what one could consider refined company, but your intelligence has merit. You are alive because I find you entertaining, at least for the moment. When you cease to be a source of amusement, you can be assured of whatever grim circumstance you feel befitting of your situation."
Those hands continue to caress his scalp, as L wraps his arms around his chest in an attempt to calm the bewildering sensations fluttering through his stomach. When an unexpected shudder runs through him, he flinches as hands rest on his shoulders and he feels warm breath ghost across the back of his neck, and a soft whisper,
"Go ahead and rinse off, there is a towel on the sink for when you are done."
L simply nods reflexively, fretting his recent inability to verbally respond when he feels physically overcome with paranoid idealizations. He begins to instantly regret his stupified state of mind as he watches the younger man stop just long enough to scoop his clothes up from the floor and spirit them away, the door closing behind him. Unspoken curses rattle through his mind and he leans back, rinsing the suds from his hair before letting the water out of the tub. There is still an incongruous amount of bubbles which remain, and he turns the shower on long enough to lave the frothy mess away. Once he is sufficiently certain he has vanquished the sudsy deluge he steps out of the tub and speedily grabs the towel, drying himself efficiently with a vigorous hastiness. He barely fastens the terry cloth material around his waist when the door opens without warning, and Raito walks inside, a pleased expression gracing his handsome features,
"That didn't take you long at all."
L shrugs, fidgeting with his chain and replies,
"You asked me to finish, I didn't believe it would please you if I took my time." His captor hands him a change of clothes, and there is an uninhibited smugness playing at his lips. L readily takes the neatly folded garments and holds them, conspicuously uncomfortable as Raito merely stands back, an expectant look on his face. L gives him a slightly helpless. nonverbal plea for privacy, but Raito acts serenely innocent, blatantly unaware of his plight while acting teasingly, maddeningly oblivious to his dilemma. Seconds tick by, and L is ripped from his disquieting ripple of shame by the clearing of the other's throat and Raito sardonically adds,
"Go ahead, take your time. I've got the rest of the night to humor you."
The detectives eyes narrow as he turns, throwing the towel on the sink and turning away to promptly dress and stops only to hold the chain up demandingly, a white shirt held tightly in his other hand. Raito smiles, and begins to encroach into his personal space and L backs away instinctively in response, the shirt falling instantly to the floor. His warden pulls the chain taut, and L turns and unconsciously places an arm between them in an attempt to create any barrier that will give him distance from the overpowering scrutiny crawling along his still naked chest. He staggers slightly at his instant meekness caused by Raito's sudden orientation to his bared flesh, unable to properly factor what his enemy wants as the disquiet in his mind begins to spiral out of control.
Raito regards his captive for a moment, of how the drug dulls the coordinated speed of his responses but not the mental agitation apparent in his demeanor. There is a recognizable strain in L's countenance, the way his chest rapidly rises and falls beneath creamy smooth flesh. L is almost painfully thin, but sinewy musculature traces impressively along his physique, delicately defining his masculinity with pristine ambiguity. A sure impulse to taste and cruelly pierce the quivering damp skin that traces the concave of his hostage's belly causes an unmistakable craving, and the intense reaction of his own body from mere proprioception, the heat emanating tantalizingly from his prisoner's flesh. His raven black hair is still somewhat damp and some of the obedient strands partly cling along the edges of his face, framing those luminous widened eyes which close tightly in response, a subdued trembling betrayed by those gentle, drying wisps of the contentious ebony locks that refuse to lie flat.
It's too intimate and invasive to be sufficiently acceptable to the introspective young man, who swiftly decides that something must be done to diffuse the situation before it gets out of hand. L starts to shove back against the hand holding him dangerously close as he opens his eyes to shoot Raito a baleful glare when he feels the manacle fall from his wrist and his attention focuses upon the shirt being placed in his once captive hand instead. He promptly takes the sudden release to straightaway regain his propriety and once his shirt is safely on, he goes about dressing as quickly as possible, before he takes account of his sudden unsteadiness, placing a shaking hand against the sink to find his sense of balance.
It's all the time Raito needs to take hold of him, locking a set of handcuffs back around his wrists before helping him to regain his equilibrium. L puts little resistance into being guided back to his pallet on the floor, allowing the other to guide him, watching Raito remove the handcuffs once he is safely restrained. He bends his head forward, and allows the younger boy to gently comb his hair, finding comfort in the apparent return to their now established routine.
A small glimmer of light catches L's eye, and he casually averts barely opened eyes to see that it's the metallic edge of a knife handle tucked neatly into the waistband of Raito's slacks. He had never noticed a weapon there before, but the kneeling position of his captor causes his shirt to ride up ever so slightly, revealing that Kira is indeed armed with deadly means should L decide to suddenly attack him. He sighs softly, letting out a light yawn and Raito does not notice anything out of place in his tired expression as he stands and prepares to leave.
In the detective's mind, the beginnings of a viable scheme to overthrow his captor start to whir with magnificent precision. He hears the familiar click of the door lock and looks up with a playful smile skirting his lips as he gnaws his thumb out of habitual procedure to accompany his thoughts. All he needs now, is to wait for the proper moment to act.