Wow, that was quick! Yes, I know; thank you for the recognition.

This chapter directly follows the last one.

Enjoy! . . . or don't, up to you, I reckon 'spect.

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Dear L,

I have no intention of ever, repeat, ever letting you read this, but I didn't know how else to start this. Actually, I've never written a journal entry—or anything personal, for that matter—so I don't really know how this is supposed to work . . . is there a set pattern or something? I should have read Sayu's diary when I had the chance just to see how she formatted it.

Well, whatever, I guess. I think I'm just formatting it off of the only personal documentation I've ever read . . . which, uh, happens to be Anne Frank's. This . . . this feels wrong now.

Well, whatever, again.

I'll just write this to you, the you who will not actually ever read this, since you're the reason I'm writing this in the first place.

Um.

Well.

I love you.

Light had hesitated greatly at those words. He didn't want to write them; it made them so real. His cheeks had reddened and his pulse had increased just thinking about it. His body released a trace amount of sweat after he'd written those three words. He felt himself smile: the woman had been correct, he certainly felt good getting that out. He felt like he had no reason to lie or omit any truths. No one was going to read it but him, so why not finally be completely honest?

Yeah, that's right: I love you. I'm not exactly sure when I started feeling this way about you nor am I sure when I finally realized it, but I'm quite aware of it now to the point that it's at the forefront of my mind. I seriously can't seem to do anything else: I'm not even acting like myself. Yes, we both know how many masks I wear, but you damn well know that those masks are a part of my personality . . . and I don't even know which to wear; you've got me so flustered.

Ugh, I just reread that and it's really fucking embarrassing. Not that you'll actually read this, so I suppose it's fine. Truths. Being completely honest is difficult; you should try this sometime too. I bet you'd suck at it more than I do.

Misa asked if I wanted to kiss you: I do. You have no idea how much. I doubt you'll ever be comfortable with the amount of time I've spent imagining kissing you. I stare at you from the side when we're "working" on the case and I know you've noticed and I know you think that I'm sizing you up, since I'm Kira—and I am Kira, you damn well know—but I'm not sizing you up, I'm imagining how detrimental it would be to just lean over and catch those lips you're always touching.

And why are you ALWAYS touching them? Do you have any idea how tantalizing that is? It's as if you're trying to test my self-restrain . . . maybe you are; I keep going over situations in my mind where you DO know and you've just been . . . toying with me. You are manipulative and cruel, but everyone keeps assuring me that you aren't doing that to me, so for now, I'll believe that (because that's what I want to believe). But really, you touching your lips just makes me want to touch them even more.

That bothered me at first, since, you know, we're both men. Perhaps you think me a boy, though . . . regardless, it frustrated me. Why did it have to be you? Why couldn't it be Misa? That would be easier. Uh, my dad gave us his blessing, by the way. Eh, and so did my mom and sister. I think Watari may have as well.

Light coughed aloud at that: it seemed everyone but the one involved knew. He was more lucky than not, he knew, since his family was undisturbed by the situation. Now, if only L were the same.

Not that there is an "us," but . . . well . . . I wish there were. Shoot, I'm thinking about your lips again. I do want to keep this writing PG, mostly since I am in a public café, but also because the thought of actually writing all the things I want to do with you is far too embarrassing. I don't . . . want to get carried away with this. I am a man, you know.

Oh man, being handcuffed was truly cruel, you realize? I already had some feelings for you—feelings I was TRYING to ignore at that point, thank you so much—and then you decide we're going to be chained together. We slept in the same bed, L; do you have ANY idea whatsoever what that did for my imagination?! My thoughts had never been so lewd. That is, until we also SHOWERED together. God, L, honestly my poor hormonal body. I'm so proud of my reserve or else . . . or else you would have quickly figured out how I felt about you (or, at least, how my body felt about you . . . feels about you, rather).

I should stop rereading what I write: I'm getting really embarrassed AND my mind is now thinking about the things I'd like to do with our bodies.

Oh god, that was embarrassing too.

Did the metal from the cuff scar your wrist too? I actually . . . I really like it. I'm sure you thought I'd be mad, since I'm picky about my appearance, but I think it's the perfect addition: like I was always meant to be marked by you. Is that sappy? It is sappy . . . ah, whatever.

Want to know the biggest secret? (Well, I guess, minus being Kira). I thought you were really cute the first time I saw you. Not in a "I'm going to knock you down and kiss all the skin on your face" kind of way, but in a "I want to pet your hair and see if it's soft . . . and if it is I am going to put my face in it—good luck stopping me" kind of way. And then when we played tennis together and when you told me you were L . . . I thought you were fucking hot. That bothered me a lot, especially since I was Kira, but the look in your eyes, the look on your face, your dead set determination . . . ah, I should stop thinking about that, my body's beginning to react.

You probably only care about the Kira thing, so let me explain: you were correct. I was too smart and too bored for my own good—I really do need you to stay sane—and when I saw something fall from the sky while I was staring out the window during class, I had to pick it up. It said that the person's whose name was written in the notebook would die. I didn't believe it at first, so I tried it on this criminal that I had heard about . . . a really mean guy. He got out of a death sentence because of too few witnesses.

So I went to see him; he hung out in a shady pub about an hour train ride from my house. He . . . he was just a waste of a human life. I heard him telling his buddies about how he had killed the girl, how the knife felt as he sliced her skin, how he enjoyed the sounds of her screams . . . it was sickening. Then he noticed me; I wasn't careful enough. He came at me. I left and tried to get away, but he followed me, saying he'd kill me the same way, saying he'd feel the same wonderful feeling when I too would scream from the slicing.

I wrote his name. I still didn't think it would work, but it was the best shot I had—I was really scared, L.

It did work.

It worked.

It had saved my life.

Can you believe it? I couldn't at first, even after I had seen it with my own eyes. I had lived because of that notebook. I had lived when I should have died by the hands of a man that should have been killed by the justice system, but couldn't since the only true witness had been killed. Who else had been spared because I killed this sorry excuse of a man? Who else would he have killed? How many people did I save?

That thought took over my mind. I don't know if it was because of the death note or because of me (or both), but I did obsess over it. How many MORE people could I save? How many more innocent people could live simply by writing the name of a criminal?

Then it got bad. This is when I think the death note may influence decisions, because you know I'm usually level headed. Well, I wasn't level headed. I got mad that someone had challenged me (I'm talking about you, L, if you couldn't tell) and I got mad that I was being followed and I got mad that you suspected me. 7% is a low percent, but it really isn't when you were able to put a 7% possibility on one person out of ALL the people in the world. That's a scary high number, L.

Shit, you're so smart, I love it.

But I got mad, because I was obsessed with killing and I was convinced that I was the good guy—black and white was all I could see. When really, we're both right. I know you agree with Kira. You know I agree with you. But, YOU are justice, bound by law, while I was a vigilante, operating outside of law.

Was. Past tense.

You know I haven't been killing.

Want to know why?

It's killing you, isn't it?

Haha, I know it is, so I'll stop tormenting you now: I want to be with you.

Want. Present tense.

I didn't want to upset you . . . I didn't want you to catch me. We became friends, I developed a crush, I fell in love . . . all during your chase. I don't want to go back to the life I had without you, L. I don't want to be without you at all. I don't know how I lived so long without someone like you. Fuck, I love you, L; I just want to scream it until you understand, until you feel the same.

I met a woman who advised me to write this all out. She was right: I do feel better. L, she was really old! Over 100, L, she had so many wrinkles . . . ah, my vanity is showing, I didn't mean it in a condescending way; the wrinkles weren't ugly, they just, I don't know, they seemed to show status—high status. She seemed to think you would enjoy figuring out that I'm in love with you.

Have you figured it out? You must have . . . right? I hope you aren't repulsed . . . I really hope that you consider and . . . I really, really hope that you feel . . . the same.

Light felt his confidence slipping as his eyes began to water. If L rejected him, would he admit to being Kira? At least then he wouldn't have to live with the rejection. He shook his head at the morbidity of that thought. What if L didn't reject him? Would he admit it then? Fuck.

Shit, you're killing me, L. The suspense is horrid. I should have just told you everything when I first officially met you . . . though, admittedly, that probably wouldn't have played out well: "Oh, you're L? Nice to meet you, I'm Light—some call me Kira—and I find you exceedingly attractive. I hadn't realized I was gay. Would you like to go out and grab a coffee, make out, and fuck?"

That . . . that wouldn't have worked out. I suppose telling you straight out after all of this wouldn't have worked well either: "Hey, L, can I tell you something right quick? I was Kira, and then I forgot, and then I remembered, but oh! Oh yeah, I developed some really deep feelings for you, so deep in fact that I no longer have any ambitions as Kira and I really just want to go out with you, grab a coffee, and perhaps make out and fuck—does that sound like a decent plan to you?"

Ah, it appears that I'm hopeless.

. . . I love you, L.

-Light

He sighed, blushing heavily. 'That's, pretty honest,' he thought, rubbing his eyes. He stretched out his hand and reread it all. Yeah, it was honest. He looked out the window; the sun was low in the sky now, prompting him to check his watch: 7pm.

"Excuse me," he called toward the front, making eye contact with one of the baristas, "At what time does this café close?"

"3 in the morning for cleaning sir. We open again at 6am," she answered smoothly; she probably answered that question many times a day.

"Thank you," he said, flashing her a smile.

She seemed unaffected by the smile and just waved back with a practiced smile of her own; he suspected that she just wanted her shift to end. He sighed again.

Without really planning to, he began to doodle on the next clean page as he let his mind wander about aimlessly. He really couldn't get L out of his mind; he just wanted him. This was bothersome; how was he meant to function? Did people do this all the time? He began to feel more pity for all the girls who had ever had feelings for him . . . and for any boys, as the case may be. Love was an awful feeling, he felt more stupid simply for having these feelings: they blocked his ability to reason, logic, and compartmentalize. He could barely focus on tasks without his mind slipping back to L for over a year now. Perhaps he really was going insane?

He almost groaned aloud in frustration again, but he refrained, remembering the outcome every time he let it show. He snapped out of his trance and looked around; no one was staring at him (this time) so he let out a small sigh. He dropped his head back down and froze at what he'd drawn. He'd drawn L . . . of course, of fucking course. Now he was staring back at the image of L's eyes boring into his, the man's lips it a quirky little half grin, and his thumb nail between his canines.

The drawing was perfect. It was too perfect. Light blushed, he sometimes hated his talent; he would draw a picture of L . . . looking a-fucking-dorable at that. Great. Just great.

He shut the journal immediately and pushed it away, letting his head fall flat onto the table top.

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Light blinked awake his burning eyes. He hadn't remembered falling asleep, but it didn't take a genius to figure it out. He sat up, eyes shut, and rubbed his face—he didn't doubt it was red from the impression of the table. Then he opened his eyes and—

And oh shit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

The real L sat across from him in a crouch, eyes staring intently at the last page of the journal Light had just filled earlier that evening. He had definitely read the whole thing; L wouldn't skip ahead after reading the first page . . . it was technically written to him . . . but . . . oh, shit.

Light felt his heart and stomach in his throat; his heart pounded too quickly and his breathing seemed to halt.

But when L finally spoke—still not looking at Light, only at the journal—Light felt his heart sink low and his breathing stopped for certain. His eyes burned again, not from exhaustion.

L had muttered, "Disgusting."

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AH FUCKING CLIFFHANGERS AMIRITE?!

Heh, that's what you get : P Fear not, though, this story isn't a sad story. I don't fucking do sad stories, so there. Tension? Yes. Heart wrenching? No. Suspense? Oh yes. Tragedy? No, no. I don't roll like that, homies.

See you next chapter ; )

~Aia~