Light is only seventeen years old.
His soft cheeks and delicate chin glow with all the innocence of adolescence, and the terror in his eyes is evident even when he closes them—but at seventeen he is already responsible for mass murder.
This remains prominent and absolute in L's mind even as he allows Light to have at him and even as he acknowledges that yes, it really is love.
It was no accident; Kira was a fully conscious and deliberate decision justified and insisted upon and risked for.
Light hasn't asked for pardon.
His fate is already decided. But there is nevertheless a curious affection between them, undeniable and regretfully real,
It's L versus Kira, and it still is L versus Kira on the office floor against the hard side of a dimly-lit desk. The metal chain is a strange reminder of a sentence far graver still to come, as well as a long-awaited separation that will leave them both feeling naked.
Since Light's release from the cell, the chain has rendered the two exasperatingly involved, perpetually aggravated and perpetually on the verge of a fight, and Light almost wishes he had realized he was Kira earlier that this were over sooner.
They had tested and deliberately tormented each other, liking neither the chain nor the undeniable curiosity it brought, and they had ever since exerted upon each other the various frustrations it created, fighting and touching and completely bent to eliminate.
Light thinks he has nearly gotten used to L's thin arms on him, the warm insistence of flesh and wet exhaustion that followed, if not for dominance then as a helpless cry of tormented despair.
When it happens now, it echoes painfully of separation, and he feels weak, infatuated, defeated not so much by the rival but by his own overpowering desire to save him.
Take me, do it.
Dark strands drape and sweep downward caudally along the naked abdomen, and for a moment L is all softness and warm regard, and, despite it all, grateful for one transient desire to save his life. And Light—yes—at seventeen Light is innocent, the perfect son has taken casually to murder as he has to leadership and achievement and anything else he could, with vast, calm amusement, turn and unravel in his mind. It was with both innocence and confidence that he first fell into Ryuuzaki's arms, and it's with the same casual curiosity that he urges him forth even as surrenders.
The thin membranes at his lips run dry with expiration, head tilted slightly back and hands urging downward, he cries for himself now, silently, for the last moments before everything changes. The slender hands at his Thighs press softly with a light, firm gentleness typical of Ryuuzaki, who understands that the person in his arms is really not the one who wants his life. Not for the time being.
Light's fingers curl against his reddening cheeks in modesty when the wetness of lips comes tentatively on him, with the human flicker of eyelashes and exhalation of warm vapor; in all their battles they haven't come this close to affection.
It might actually not hurt.
It doesn't hurt. It's good and steady and hot, a consoling manipulation that renders him vulnerable and curiously shy. L's fingers at his lips are softer now, pressing with humility he hasn't shown before, and, whimpering inaudibly, Light allows him in. Then everything is velvety wetness and warmth when the fingers at his lips pull downward and L's mouth is on his. Light's arms come around the bony shoulders in a final gesture of surrender when at last L takes him, and it feels almost like trust.
Light doesn't let go of the digits at his mouth, pressing with modest, silent desperation, so L allows him—he'll allow him more tonight than usual, because for all his defenses, he will at last grant Light an opportunity to feel the contentment of trust and acknowledgement. But no farther. The innocent creature in his arms will kill him.
"Don't," L whispers when, helplessly tormented, Light begins to murmur something about regret and sorrow and love, so the boy grows quiet with frail surrender and his arms grow tighter around L's back. There is silence, light and shadow and the fluidity of bones and muscle beneath white skin, the echoing of breath and the sway of hair, until, with the relentless grasp of fingers upon each other comes at last release, hot and real and liquid. They fall on each other, wet and messy and tightly entangled, and neither yet ready to let go.
To be continued…