All I have to say is…I have never cried writing something before this. So, um…I hope it depresses you, too?
Anyway, I've wanted to write an L haunting fic with Light for a very, very long time. I'm quite proud of how it turned out, even though it destroyed my mood and made me want to implode. The ending to Death Note never fails to do that to me, but writing it…my god. O_O
Don't own Death Note, mon cherie.
i look for ghosts; but none will force
their way to me. 'tis falsely said
that there was ever intercourse
between the living and the dead.
- william wordsworth
L haunts Light before his name is even written down.
It is the quiet times like these that are the heaviest, because he can sense eyes on his back, their tiny black claws spearing his spine and burrowing in his brain. On any other night, sleep would come easy. The cool, seductive lace of night has dropped itself outside the window, because L insists on keeping the blinds open for reasons unknown, so even if Light wanted to ignore the moon just once the bastard would win again.
Do you think you'll always win, L?
"Light-kun…"
It is that dizzying mashup of a demand and a moan that gets him the most. The demon that whispers by his ear is still very much alive, with a heartbeat and pulse and oxygen drifting up to that blasted mind of his. Light ignores it every night, every fucking time the man pulls this guilty stunt; he knows Light enjoys his loss of control more than anything, and his hands twitch to wrap around his scrawny neck and clutch for dear life.
Do you really believe it, L?
"Look at me, Light-kun."
But he has looked at him enough. He knows that when this is all over, he will still see him every day of his reign, prodding him and groaning with each shift of weight he makes while fighting on the edge of delirium. He will still be there, and it makes no difference to him as he closes his eyes to L's maddening breathing.
It will all be worth it. Light knows this, he will place his life on it, because sleeping with a ghost cannot be any different when they are actually dead.
I want you to believe it, L, just so I can prove you wrong.
...
He enjoys the idyllic quiet that comes with the man's downfall.
He relishes the lack of eyes on his back as he tries to sleep. That haggard breathing is no longer warm, sickeningly evident, on the back of his neck. The accusations that come even with a head-splitting climax are as dead and buried as the one who once hoarsely cried them out. There are no more riddles in his ears to whittle his way out of.
But the most feverish realization of all is that Light is undeniably, unbeatably right.
…
A week passes.
The first visit comes in the mirror, the most typical and expected of places. Even with those familiar black eyes, void of any signs of being human, skittering across Light's reflection as he washes his face, he does not jump.
It is just another point in Light's theory. Death suits L better than life ever could have.
…
Look at me, Light-kun.
Light hopes that he watches him when he does this. With each graceful swipe of his pen, he wants his watery holograph to be standing defenselessly behind him, unable to stop the assured death that comes with each flick of his wrist upon paper. He hopes that he sees the smile that bites at his lips violently, lustily, and to know that the chase is over for the boneless fog that used to be L.
You can't do anything now.
He has seen those eyes twice by now, and he regrets nothing but the fact that he did not do it sooner.
…
L makes a public appearance three days later.
Light stands by the window of the immaculate headquarters, listening to Matsuda chirp away about something irrelevant on the news, the agitated groan from Aizawa. Their mindless drabble has grown archaic by now, and Light regards it by closing his almond eyes and taking a steadying breath.
"…and I thought it was pretty interesting, you know, Aizawa? I mean, how often is it that you see-"
"God dammit, Matsuda! Some space, for Christ's sake!"
Such loud people, taking up space and wasting his time. He could be a god by now if it were not for having to craft up a way to off this crew; they are eating up his patience with their squawking.
Matsuda's voice again, this time aimed at him. "Well, what do you think, Light?"
Yes, what do you think, Light-kun?
While his calm is still firmly rooted, Light's eyes narrow a notch at the echoing in his ears as he turns around to face Matsuda.
And L is hiding behind him.
It is like a badly rehearsed ploy, because his head peeks around Matsuda's shoulder, his eyes tedious yet expecting as his thumb plays with his bottom lip.
As Light stands by the window, his lips frozen in the middle of his response, L smiles at him, the shadows in his dead eyes clouding over the rest of his face. Just a single skip of Light's heart at the sight that is not entirely there, and L is washed away into nothingness.
Cruel, how truly pleased he had appeared that he had managed to startle the man that held him as he died.
…
His touch, cool and imaginary, grazes over Light's hand at the worst of moments. Sitting awake in bed, reading over pointless data at his desk, in the middle of showering.
It comes more often now. The first assault had been presented in the form of a single chilled fingertip, invisible to the receiver, barely stroking against the pulse in his neck, causing it to twitch an extra beat.
Look at me, Light-kun.
What catches Light the most is that he had been laying in bed, his back turned to the spot where the detective had tortured him in that passive way of his, with his demand-moans for attention, the writhing of his spindly, white body as Light had caved in to the primal fever three, four, five times.
But even when he turns to swat at the touch, like a fly landing on his skin, Light scoffs and rolls back over to ignore the indiscernible man digging holes into his back with his eyes.
…
It is like a sickness spreading all throughout his body, festering in his mind, boiling over when provoked, because the fucker is showing his face every day by now.
The antidote? Avoiding all reflective surfaces seems to work temporarily. A towel hangs over the bathroom mirror each morning that Light showers, brushes his teeth, washes his hands. The curtains are drawn over every window (he tells the task force that the sun gives him headaches, and they believe him steadfastly, not bothering to press him for details).
But now, the voice grows louder in his head when he tries to take peace from silence. L's cold velvet voice, fogged over, as if drowning, but then hissing, sighing into his ear like a serpent. He whispers cruel accusations, although they are no longer such a thing, since the last thing the man saw before slipping away was Light hovering over his fading form, smirking at his defeat. And they are no longer cruel, because he was correct.
…
I can see you, Light-kun.
Don't flatter yourself, Ryuzaki.
I suppose I shouldn't even call you Light-kun anymore, seeing how that worked for me…does Kira-sama sound affable?
Fuck you.
Oh, that never played out so well, either, Kira-sama. Your battle for control was nothing less than mediocre every time.
You know I never wanted to.
Mm, yes, that was why you refused to submit, wasn't it? It's easier to lie to yourself when you are on top, isn't it, Kira-sama?
You can't do anything to me now, Ryuzaki. And it pains you. That's why you're here in the first place.
Incorrect. Think of it more as business, Kira-sama. You are left free to roam the planet in spite of killing hundreds upon thousands of criminals, and I get to toy with you at my leisure. It's only fair that I get something out of this as well, hmm?
Get something out of what? What are you talking about, Ryuzaki?
Just like him, to flee the scenery of Light's mind before he even answers his question.
…
The headquarters smells of rain each day from then on. Not the moldy, stinging smell of wet clothing, or furniture left outside in a storm, but fresh, warm rain that had fallen from the same sky just a month before.
It smells the strongest in Light's bed. He can almost feel that rain falling from the ceiling onto his body as he lays there, his eyes squeezed shut in irritation. It is an earthy, mournful scent that fills his nose and bleeds into his brain to reappear every few seconds. It is the smell of a storm, the bitter odor of death, the musky scent of L's hair as it glides down Light's stomach and vanishes.
And he does not even consider asking the task force if they smell it as well. He already knows.
…
And there he is again, crouching on Light's desk like a gargoyle, peering up at him with that impossible smirk.
Light sends him a fleeting glance as he begins stacking papers idly on the surface, keeping himself busy. His mind, however, shifts into high gear for another showdown.
Get out.
Oh, but I rather like it here, Kira-sama. Have you already forgotten that this place was mine before it was yours?
Kind of hard to claim that something is still yours when you're dead, don't you think, Ryuzaki?
I figured you would say something like that. It fits you to be so ill-bred to something that most people are afraid of.
Afraid of? Oh, don't tell me that you want me to fear you now, Ryuzaki?
Then again, most people fear murderers as well…perhaps that is why your cause is gaining followers, no?
People support Kira because they want a crime-free world, Ryuzaki. No one wants to live in fear their entire lives.
You don't mean that, Kira-sama.
And what the hell makes you think I don't, Ryuzaki?
Because you are living in fear at this exact moment, Kira-sama. Look down at your hands.
My hands…?
With a glance down, Light sees.
His hands are trembling, pale, freezing cold. A burst of rage flashes through Light's body as he whips his attention back up to the misty figure on his desk. L is practically beaming at him by now, all behind that fucking thumb, that fucking fog.
Get the hell out, Ryuzaki!
Ah, but Kira-sama…who ever said that I am here in the first place?
"Just…leave…"
It takes a cautious hand on his shoulder and a concerned gaze, belonging to Matsuda, for Light to realize that he has said this out loud. As the young officer asks him if he is feeling ill, L's dark laughter rings in his ears when his filmy being drifts away again.
…
He calls it a leisurely walk when explaining it to the task force, but Light makes his way up to that damn roof with a glare to kill. Just as he expects, L is waiting for him, standing in the same spot as he did on the last day of his life, and turns his head to return his stare.
There is sadness in those eyes, but Light does not care. He is here, and he is going to take advantage of it before he lets him get away again.
"What do you want, Ryuzaki?" Light begins dangerously, his voice low and trembling with an unbridled rage. "Is there something you want me to do? Just say it already!"
L does not move. His normally vapor-like figure is now completely intact, as if human instead of invented, as if Light could reach out and strangle his neck and watch him die beautifully all over again.
The image is too much for Light's calm stature to handle. He flits over to the stationary man with fire in his eyes, hatred seeping out of his heart with each second he glowers at him. "Don't just stand there like you don't see me! Come on, you said it yourself that you wanted to get something out of this!" At this, Light flings his arms wide open, defending something within him that, at the moment, he feels like L can steal. "Just tell me what you expect from me, because I'm sick of you hanging over me like the freak that you are!"
L is unphased. His eyes remain as shadowed and poignant as before, but he turns and goes back to staring straight ahead of him, out towards the high tower just in the distance. "That I was, Kira-sama."
"And stop calling me that!" Light orders. "Do you think it changes anything, Ryuzaki?"
L's sharp jawline tilts higher up to the clouded sky as he releases a heavy sigh. "That is exactly why I call you that," he says tiredly. "You've made it terribly apparent that nothing about you will change, regardless of what I call you, just as I expected."
Light clenches his fists and takes another step towards the apparition. Can he even call it such a thing when it is so clear and responsive before him? "There's nothing to change, Ryuzaki," he growls. "You're still an arrogant bastard just as you were before you lost."
"You never won, Light," L objects suddenly. His eyes are on him now, blazing with life, an obvious lie. His changing of address towards Light, the lack of any honorific takes him off guard for a moment, but Light stands by and awaits his explanation.
We'll see, Ryuzaki. We'll see who won when you watch me take over this society with the true meaning of justice.
"And you still haven't won," L continues coldly. "There is a task force three floors below that believes you are taking a walk, but are in fact arguing with yourself on a roof. There is no victory from that, Light."
"Of course you think that," Light spits out cruelly. A single raindrop hits his nose, but he ignores it; the smell of rain, he has grown so awfully used to it by now that it no longer holds the same disturbance as it used it. "You could have done it if you wanted to. If you had really wanted to win, you would have put me on execution without hesitating! If anyone could have done it it would have been you, so don't try to tell me anything about not having victory!"
The single raindrop that had struck him turns into a breezy drizzle, the smell of earth now turning into pungent, damp asphalt beneath Light's shoes. The darkening grey of the sky correlates all too closely with the grievous charcoal of L's eyes that look upon Light with an unreadable expression, escaping all description besides heavy. Tired. False. "That would not have been justice, Kira-sama," he says quietly. Again with the switch of name, this time colder, ironic. "That would have made me nothing more than Kira himself, a murderer."
The statement sends a shockwave through Light's furious mind and he lunges towards the adversary, but is studdenly stopped short when L reaches out for him.
A frigid fingertip on his face, calm and tender, just like it used to when they drowned in the afterglow of Light's denial. Light feels a cold rush shoot up from his toes and rest in his heart; not sentimentality, but frustration at being stopped in the middle of his attack. The misty tone has returned to L's voice as he whispers, "Light-kun will never confess, just as Kira-sama will never change."
Light is frozen, his lips unable to form words, but he watches L with a dull sort of shock that he cannot explain.
L tilts his head to the side as his touch glides down to that spot: his pulse, violently thrashing in his neck. At the cold sensation, Light's heartbeat slows, manipulated by the touch. The sadness returns to L's eyes in a dark overcast. "Sad," he says thoughtfully, softly, "you would have been an excellent associate, Light. Perhaps, even…"
His voice trails off, as does his touch upon Light's neck. The young man's pulse returns to normal, and Light remains frozen, breathing heavily, waiting.
The rain falls harder. L whispers again, with his head bowed and eyes alert and wide.
"No." Dark, hoarse is his voice, not calm or gentle any longer. "Kira-sama could have never been my friend."
The rush that comes with L's disappearance sends Light into a delirious fit, jerking his head around to find where he has vanished to this time. His heart is battering itself against his ribcage, eyes wild and feverish, but L has caught him yet again.
Light reaches up to touch his hair; completely dry, as is the ground. His clothes remain crisp and pressed.
That is when he remembers. It has not rained in over a week.
…
And just like that, the visitations stop. There are no velvet voices hissing in his ear. There are no touches on his hand, no assaults to his pulse, no eyes on his back when he tries to sleep. The task force headquarters smells of air conditioning and coffee.
Yet he sleeps with the sheet covering his head each night. There is apprehension, a small fraction of something that is not quite hope, when rain falls outside the window. Tonight, Light lays on his side, waiting for that awful moan to sting his ears, for an obtrusive gaze to drag him out of his thoughts.
He is waiting on pins. It is the most paranoid that Light can ever remember being when his late rival leaves him for four long years.
…
It is only appropriate in the end.
The stairs that would be pressing into his spine uncomfortably render nothing but a dull pressure. The bullet wounds, his exhausted limbs, they provide none of the agony that Light Yagami endures as he awaits his fall.
It is the humiliation. Defeat. The dwindling idea that somehow, even in death, he may somehow still come out on top, rising above Near, his stone-cold evidence, the world's inability to learn.
But none of that is possible with those eyes, making their dramatic comeback at the most inconvenient of times, when Light is sprawled out on a lonely stairwell as if to say, Fine, L. Do what you want. Take your victory.
Look at you, Light-kun.
Y-you bastard…
The pain…Light is sure that it is there somewhere, because his body is battered and bleeding from every gasping wound, but it is just not there. Vacant, cold, still beating.
Your heart, Light-kun. How does it feel?
G-go away…
This will be the last time, Light-kun.
The…l-last time…?
He can almost hear it echoing in his ears: the scratching of pen against paper, Light Yagami. Dying and delirious, seeing the vapory figure of the last man that he wishes to see at this raw moment.
"Remember when I said…that I would be the one writing your name in my Death Note?"
Ryuk…!
If there would just be rain…
"…can neither go to heaven or hell."
If there would be rain, perhaps he could feel something besides this embarrassment, the choking nostalgia, the bitter feeling of L's dead eyes scanning over his helpless body.
W-what are you still doing here…L…
Do you remember the rain, Light-kun?
He does not want to remember the rain, because his mind is reeling from the sight of L and the burning thought of what this world, rotting and caving in, could have become, but he finds himself wishing for rainfall to soothe all that is broken, what lies crippled and dying on merciless cement steps. Light, the fallen god, the angel that could have pulled society out of its dark fate; it is him that is spread out like a torn up paper doll, complete in tattered clothes and bloody, bruised skin.
But he does remember the rain. Perhaps better than anything at this moment, he remembers the sadness in his enemy's eyes as he awaited his own death, just as Light is at this exact moment. Ironic, how L now stands before him, a somber audience to a perishing performer that had given the best show any human could have managed.
As his heart snaps to a final stop, Light does not remember rain any longer.
And L, glassy and fading, walks away before he sees the darkness come.
Ahem. I need to write something fluffy now. Maybe go drown in some kittens and chibis.
Reviews are highly appreciated! Until next time.
phollie.