Light doesn't say much when he follows L out of the room and down the hallway. He walks absently, allowing L to lead.
L knows how Kira kills now, and even through his general state of melancholy this causes him certain undeniable satisfaction. What's more, he understands that Light can't kill right now. Unless there's another element involved, Light cannot kill without the notebook.
L is almost entirely sure that Light cannot kill in this state, either – a transformation really had occurred with the destruction of the books.
He helps Light brush his teeth and wash his face and his hair, he helps him change his clothes and clip his toenails, all the while fully aware of the thought that Light saved him, he saved him deliberately. This subtle gesture of unavoidable concern runs through his skin electric with charge and light, and with all the gentleness inherent to his fragile person he tends to the younger boy, who may be thinking a great deal but reveals nothing.
Before they lie down to sleep, L offers him water again, and Light drinks silently and obediently, but no more than half the glass. He does so not so much with compliance as indifference, however, and L speculates he may waste away before long.
He has stopped trying to make conversation with Light; he has stopped urging him to visit his family or to eat. He just lets him be now and turns to face the wall, staring out into the darkness until his eyes become enough accustomed to make out the outline of furniture in the room, and then he sits up in bed and begins to stand when he feels a tug on the sleeve of his cotton shirt.
Startled, he turns his head to meet Light's gaze.
"Don't go," the boy mumbles, thin fingers closed feebly around the fabric.
L does not reply. He stares back in the darkness for a long time.
They don't speak.
When L draws closer, Light does not back away, and he does not resist when the wet pressure of lips comes upon him. Then comes the insistence of palms on L's slender back, urging him closer, and suddenly Light is holding him with every remainder of strength in his thin body.
L remains silent and deep in thought, and even as Light presses feverishly against him he cannot deny that yes, he does like this. Light's fingers trail curiously along the edges of L's lips, and L accepts, allowing him inside and allowing him to lick slowly at the corner of his mouth.
Tormented by agony and aggravation, Light moves against him, disturbed and desperate and unmistakably hard, and very gently L pulls away, murmuring that it isn't a good idea and Light is practically emaciated and shouldn't exert himself.
But he can't deny that, somewhere in his mind, he wants this just as badly, and it's all he can do to prevent himself from drowning his own frustration in Light.
"S…sorry," Light murmurs quietly, and indeed he is too exhausted even to slide away from L. Soon he is motionless but for the low hissing of expiration, feathery and moist just above the ripples of cotton at L's shoulder.
L's black eyes are wide and expressionless in the darkness as he wonders what is to be done about the boy in his arms.
There is something Light said earlier that has troubled L ever since—
Find it before I do.
Find what? Clearly this means if Light finds whatever it is, there will be danger.
Then this isn't over.
Even if Light no longer remembers these words, he is right in insisting he shouldn't be released.
Behind expressionless black eyes there really is pity now.
L lowers his chin against Light's head. His hair is still moist and falls in a gentle cascade against L's shirt, scattering on the fabric and wetting him. When L brushes his lips against the shell of his ear, Light's fingers tighten against the sheet, weak and tremulous and grasping ever so slightly at the mattress. He has gone so bony and pale that L seriously begins to consider having him treated with an IV.
Am I allowing my personal gratitude to take precedence over safety?
While Light was previously awaiting the death penalty, the events that transpired thereafter lead to a change in L's thoughts as he truly came to understand that the root of the problem lay not in Light, himself, but rather in whatever supernatural powers are associated with death gods.
Light's breath issues forth warm and shallow, his eyelashes clinging together in thin, damp bunches—and he's the only friend L has ever had.
To be continued…