(Posted July 23, 2010)
KK: Thank you all for the support! This is my most alerted story (probably 'cause it's the one with more than one chapter -_-)! Y'know, I never actually paid much attention to the stats other than reviews, until I finally decided to make use of that email alert system ffnet so kindly gives to us.
Warnings: Aaand, we're back to the angst. Hope you all don't mind. Not LxLight. Doesn't even have the potentiality of being LxLight. (Well, it does have the possibility, but let's just say that'd make a very awkward story.) It is L AND Light, though. CaliforniaHills7, looks like your request came true (really just at perfect timing), kind of. I doubt it was what you were expecting, but, as always, I hope you guys can enjoy it.
Unconditional
The only sound was the muted rumbling of L's high-quality tires on concrete. It had been quite a bit of time since L felt the silence this deeply. Light hadn't made a sound, which made the L uncomfortable.
While it was true that the boy didn't actually have a noisy personality, there had always been a sort of tuneful, curious, peaceful loudness surrounding him, as it did with every other happy child his age. This, combined with the clever, powerful yet pure atmosphere he kept was what made Yagami Light such an individual.
L had become accustomed that type of presence and was sorely missing it.
"Light," he said, taking great effort to break the oppressive silence. "How do you feel?"
The boy's wide, childish eyes blinked, and his lips parted slightly, but he only took in a bit of breath and tipped his head forwards. L lost his courage to persist.
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the driveway to L's house – where Light had been staying this month.
"We're home." Immediately he regretted it when he saw Light look up towards the large, flawless building, and wince ever so faintly. No, this wasn't Light's home. It may have been yesterday night, when he had fallen asleep to L's soft voice with a flutter of a smile on his lips.
But no. No home. There couldn't be.
"Sayu. We forgot her."
Sayu. She was a sweet girl, even after the accident. Unlike Light, the three-year-old had fallen in love with L instantly, insisting that he was Ryu the Raccoon from some children's cartoon she loved. They had been planning to visit her – Light had chosen the fairy tale he was going to read to her while she recovered. But they forgot.
"You aren't in any condition to see her."
"I'm not sick."
"Light, you don't want to see her."
"…"
The boy unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car, his brightly colored sneakers stumbling over the cement.
L followed, leading the boy into the house where they both removed their shoes (L kicked them off towards directions unknown, Light set them aside neatly).
They headed for the kitchen, where L rummaged through the fridge for the peanut butter and jelly, all the while keeping his eye on Light, who had climbed onto a stool, his feet dangling lifelessly above the pearly tiles.
L plopped a bag of white bread on the kitchen island, where Light stared unseeingly at the marble surface. Taking two slices out, the man spread the peanut butter on one and slopped a huge and unnecessary amount of jelly on the other. Light made no comment.
He used on finger to push the food in front of Light. "Here."
"I'm not hungry."
"I know," L said simply. "Eat."
Light didn't even sigh before he gripped the edges of the sandwich with both hands and ate, not tasting the overly sweet preserved strawberries or the viscous peanut butter.
L still watched, half-calculating, half-struggling. These past weeks, L had found himself by Light's side far more often than expected he could ever be for anyone. He's comforted Light when the boy found himself lonely of his sister and mother, and he's calmed the boy after nightmares of what happened and what could happened.
The man had calculated percentages of something like this happening, and though the percentages had been high, he had not been able to figure out what he would do. He never even considered that he would have to do something, but here he was, the only one who could help and completely helpless.
All L knew was what he wanted, and that he wasn't sure, for the first time in a long time, if he could take it.
"Light," he began slowly. "The only thing I can do now is ask you to remember that I have been in the same position as you."
Light stopped chewing, and stared intently at L.
He continued. "Though it was a long time ago, I was never able to forget it. I know you won't either. Your mother dying today will stay with you forever, but know that I am here and that you can say anything to me."
The seven-year-old boy lowered his head, his short locks falling over his eyes. A moment's silence, then "You're wrong."
"Light?"
"You think you're the same as me, but you're wrong."
L saw the boy's eyes then, and recognized the primal, desperate gleam from the first day they met. It aimed to hurt, to either repel or cause need for vengeance, L was never sure. He hadn't really been affected by this defense mechanism the last time it happened, but it had only happened once and this time it was sharper and more dangerous. Or maybe, because L had become so closer to this boy, he simply felt more vulnerable. He tried to brace himself for the assault, but wondered if it made any difference when Light spoke.
"My parents wanted me," Light declared.
L's brain went off on several tangents. That was surprisingly painful. His mind shot back to the day when L had willingly told Light about his past, and watched as the story was absorbed into the seven-year-old mind with caution, care, and compassion.
The first stage had been denial, probably there at the hospital when all the machines went off and the doctors and nurses scattered futilely. God knows Light had plenty of time to deny as they had spent hours there while his mother teetered on the edge of death before finally falling over.
This was probably anger, the second stage, but it may have been the beginnings of bargaining as well.
Because Light was wrong.
After all, only one of his parents wanted him. L thought of Soichiro, the man so consumed in his work that he had already left his family before his body did.
L was already half-provoked to point this out to Light, but he stopped himself just before realizing that the boy had already realized the fallacy in his statement and his face was already contorted in the pain.
"Light."
The boy startled, then made a strangled, fearful sound before abandoning the stool. At least, he attempted to. He was still too small to get off the stool easily and in his haste, fell gracelessly onto the cold floor.
L was already in front of the boy, lifting him up. "Where does it hurt?" He was already calculating the amount of time it would take for him to get the first aid kit, obtain a band-aid, and put it on. Before Light, he had barely even known what antiseptic was. Now he knew that the first aid kit was on the first cabinet next to the sink behind the canned beans, and that the rocketship-themed band-aids cheered Light up the most.
Light protested, trying to fumble his way out of L's grasp, but the man held firm. "Stop, I…"
"Answer me, Light. Where does it hurt?"
Light shook his head. "No! It doesn't…"
They both fell silent, staring at the reddening skin of Light's skin which would eventually purple, then green, then return to a soft tan.
L wondered when Light had started shaking violently, or when he had turned to bury himself in L's arms, when L had responded by hugging the child closer, or when L's shirt started to soak through.
"I- I don't kn-know wh-where…"
L pulled the boy tighter, a feeling of protectiveness and want that he had never imagined feeling before. He wanted Light. He wanted to watch Light grow and smile, and he wanted to be there when Light hurt, but he wanted even more to keep Light from getting hurt.
He wanted to be there every time Light tried to convince himself that he should have been in that car with his mother and sister, and he wanted to be there when little Sayu recovered and Light could begin to be happy again.
"L…!"
So as Light's keening sobs tore horrid wounds into the air, L whispered sweet everythings, his words slowly, clumsily, determinedly stitching everything up together again.
KK: Cliche metaphors are cliche metaphors. Run on sentences are also run on sentences. "Everythings" is apparently not, in fact, a word, but "nothings" is. So unfair.