Red/Night
Scare him. Beat him. Be him.
He cared about his goals, of course, but not so much at night.
At night, when his blessedly long and spidery fingers (it would have been very difficult to fake those) run over his body leaving trails of sweet fire in their wake. The memories are as fresh as ever, even though they are only glances of snowy skin and black hair and black eyes (and he hates putting the contact lenses in, but he has to) that seem to see the red, red blood under the equally pale skin of the other. And now he's in his one-room apartment that's cheap and inconspicuous, and his fingernails are leaving bloody marks on his own chest. Oh, how he wishes it was L's.
Now, he's red and black and white all over, the danger-eyes lacking contacts at the moment are closed, better to focus on the film playing in his head. Black hair, and pale skin, the body that looks frail but isn't...he might as well be looking in the mirror.
But he isn't quite that narcissist yet.