warnings: all of the usual, with a bonus of crazy, insane psychosis!
notes: Ladies and gentlemen, (probably mostly ladies), the moment you've been waiting for…
chapter six - the ends.
"Human madness is oftentimes a cunning and most feline thing. When you think it fled, it may have but become transfigured into some still subtler form."
- Herman Melville, Moby Dick: or, the White Whale.
The night drags on.
They've set Matsuda's interview on Sakura TV up for tomorrow and L is acting strange. Stranger than usual. He paces. He eats enough sweets to feed a small country. He goes over the plan once, twice, and again and again. He sprawls on their bed, legs spread out and head hanging off of the edge, back a crooked arch. He recites half of Homer's Iliad in rapid Greek, accent strange and fascinating to Light, who lies beside him, not even pretending to try to sleep any longer. He tells Light that he is beautiful. He says half-hearted, disjointed things, confessions and accusations, a veritable conglomeration of unspoken fears finally uttered in the quiet dawn.
"Imagine us standing in the street," he murmurs, curled onto his side and watching Light with wide, distant bug-eyes. "Just imagine us, standing there. Now imagine a car coming out of nowhere and killing us both instantly." He says it like it's nothing. "We should know better. We should know better than to stand around in the middle of the street, shouldn't we?"
"L, what - ?" Light asks, because he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't like when L is like this, pathetic and poetical and even more of a puzzle than usual.
"The car is coming, Light," he says. "You are the car."
He's either too out of it to notice or he really has dispensed with the honorifics completely, because Light is now just Light to him. It's oddly freeing.
"This is ridiculous," Light says, falling onto his back and rolling his eyes, because if it really is the end of the world the way L is acting like it is, then they might as well not waste it. "You're being ridiculous. Let's fuck."
L stares at him for a long moment, then shrugs. "Okay."
At this point, Light wouldn't particularly mind if L were to climb on top of him and give it to him roughly, the way L likes to when his head goes missing and he needs something to focus on. He doesn't move, though, just lies there, apparently waiting for Light to do his worst, and so Light does.
L's head still hangs off of the bed and the ragged ends of his hair drag on the floor with every thrust, body bobbing like a buoy during a storm, a violent sea knocking them into one another. L's body is taut and he sweats slowly, eyes locked on the ceiling above of him, like his mind is somewhere completely separate. If it were possible to even entertain the notion of L thinking of anyone but him, Light might be slightly jealous at the moment. But it isn't possible, not unless -
Light grits his teeth, gives a particularly rough thrust. "Are you thinking about Kira?" he gasps into L's ear.
"Yes," L says, automatically. At least he's not lying, for once. "Are you?"
Light hates him, but also rather adores him in these horribly depressing ways, like a schoolgirl with a crush on some inscrutable professor twice her age. They're star-crossed, almost romantic at times - though now is not one of those times. "You're wrong about it, L," he grunts, because he's thrilling with need and the words won't come smoothly. "You're so wrong and you're going to be so fucking ashamed when you find out how wrong you are. You better apologize. You better grovel."
"Is that what you want?" L breathes into his ear, finally actually looking at him. "For me to grovel?"
"Yes," Light groans, feeling like such an embarrassment to himself, but he wants, he wants, he wants.
"Light," L gasps, voice going breathy and unbelievably submissive. "Please," he begs.
A closer look shows the slightly impish smile on L's lips, a tease. Light suspects he's being made fun of, but it's hot enough that he can't quite bring himself to mind. "Bastard," he grits. L shifts his hips, delivering maddening pressure with just a slight adjustment, and Light comes gasping inside of him a few minutes later, jerking L off roughly with his other hand.
L's still smiling slightly, sated and hazy, a few moments later when everything fades down from the glistening thrill of orgasm. "Sleep," L tells him in a quiet, lulling voice, at once both very kind and very cruel. Light doesn't know what to think, doesn't know how to deal with any of this.
He only knows that he's not Kira, and he comforts himself with this thought as he strokes L's jagged shoulder blades and drifts into a loose sleep, both happy - in some twisted, unexplainable way - and scared out of his mind.
L knows it's a bad idea, but he's off the chain again, wrist bare and swinging unimpaired at his side.
Maybe it had been the taste of freedom last week, maybe it's just that tomorrow - given the plan, given Higuchi - things will most certainly change. Maybe he simply needs to think, and can't do as much in Light's presence, listening to his soft, even breaths rise and fall like a ticking clock, counting down to the end of the case.
The building is quiet at this time of night, world strung halfway to morning but still waiting. L slips quietly out onto one of the balconies, door opening and closing with a short click and the soft patter of his footsteps and nothing more. His feet are bare and the cold October air hits him in a rush and he's finally able to process things in the quiet chill - or he would be able, were he alone.
His first thought is Wedy, eyes catching on the wafting curls of cigarette smoke, but of course he's wrong. Misa looks cold in nothing but a dressing gown and slippers, leaning against the building like a cast-off china doll, choking quietly on her cigarette. If she'd been shocked to see L come out, she's covered it up by now, eyes lowered tiredly.
L stares at her for a long moment, not knowing what to think and, ultimately, deciding not to think anything in particular.
"New hobby?" he asks, nodding at the cigarette, voice softer than it needs to be.
"Wedy gave it to me," she says, sounding more calm than he's maybe ever heard her, no note of chipper excitement bubbling in the words. "Then she said I had skin like Barbara Stanwyck, but I don't know who that is." She coughs, seemingly yet to have mastered smoking, but trying again anyhow.
"Old-time western movie actress," L says, shifting his gaze away from her and back to the city skyline. "Wedy knows her noir."
Tokyo really is beautiful, in its way. Most cities L has been to are, although it often takes time to see it. He spends more than enough time watching the horizon through towering buildings, sees the world reflected in chrome and glass and heavy stone, his own eyes cut down the middle with the mirrored sky. He suspects his life story could be told in window views and balcony mornings, quiet moments like this one.
Neither of them speak for a long time, both in worlds completely separate from one another, only crossing over in odd places.
"Don't tell Light," Misa says, after a moment. She's not looking at him, just watches sun crawl on fragile legs into the sky. "He thinks smokers are disgusting."
She's not wearing any make-up and she looks different. Older, maybe, strange as that seems. There's a small, hidden part of L that wishes that she were brilliant, the mastermind behind the operation - the real Kira. She could be the villain and Light could be her helpless puppet, manipulated into horrible acts instead of reveling in them, a victim. Someone L could save instead of someone he has to destroy. In truth, of course, it's more than likely the opposite of that, and Misa is the victim in this situation. Maybe if L were a better person, he'd try to save her.
Maybe if she were a better person, she wouldn't need saving in the first place.
"Misa-san," he says to her downcast eyes, because this doesn't feel like a time where he needs to dance around the subject, "don't you ever get tired of always putting Light before yourself?"
She looks up at him then. "No," she says abruptly, like there isn't any other possible answer. "You'd think I would, right?" She laughs, a half-hearted, tinkling laugh, like she's attempting the farce but can't quite commit to it, not on this kind of morning. "I'm not, though, not really. Light makes me… happy." She says it like happy isn't really what she means, but she can't think of a better word for what she feels. "Even when he's not - even if he says things that - I can't help it. I want to keep that feeling."
She looks at L like she's waiting for confirmation, like she wants him to say that he understands. The awful part is that he rather does.
He leaves her on the balcony with her cigarette burning down between his small fingers, childlike hands shaking in the chill morning air.
He really should go back to the room, back to Light, but he finds himself heading to a different floor instead.
When L slumps in, disheveled in yesterday's clothes and sex-tousled hair and the fading pangs of the cool outdoor breeze, Watari is already exquisite in his uniform, hair neatly combed, mustache trimmed and glasses polished to a smooth shine. He smiles, softly and politely, when he sees L.
"Tea?" he asks, already pulling out another cup.
"Yes," L says, needlessly. He stands there, glancing around blankly, trying to remember if he's even been in Watari's room here before, and deciding it probably doesn't matter either way. There are so many rooms, so many buildings, so many useless memories of places neither of them will ever go again.
After the Kira case, L thinks, he'll wait years before coming back to Japan. He needs a change, a world as much separate from this one as he can possibly get. Maybe he'll see about cases in the tropics. He's always rather hated hot weather, but he thinks he could make himself used to it, if the need arises. He tells himself that it's not out of the desire to put an entire globe between Light and himself, but he knows better than anyone what a liar he is.
Watari nods to a chair and L climbs into it, curling up around himself for lack of anything better to do. Watari brings the pot over and sets the tea things on a small coffee table between them, placing a large bowl of sugar cubes in front of L, who immediately pops one into his mouth and crunches appreciatively.
"Now," Watari says, when everything is set up, familiar British lilt calming L in the way it always does, "I presume you want to talk about Light Yagami?"
"He's Kira," L says simply, sipping from his tea cup.
Watari nods. "It seems most likely."
L waits until he's finished swallowing to say, in his dullest, most unremarkable voice, "He's not bad in bed, either." Watari sips his tea, not reacting with anything more than another nod and a slightly patronizing smile, as if he knows exactly what reaction L is fishing for and isn't going to grant it to him. L rolls his eyes, clicking his spoon around his teacup. "Aren't you going to say something inspiring about justice and personal sacrifices?" he mumbles.
Watari dabs at his mouth with a napkin. "You have a job to do. You're doing it well. I don't believe that you need my assurances to have confidence in your methods, however unorthodox." He doesn't says unorthodox like it's at all negative, and in fact, has always thought very highly of L's keen ability to manipulate his suspects using sex. L's not sure what that says about either of them, but suspects that it can't be good.
"I'm not doing it well," L counters.
Because, yes, Light has fallen for him. Light is set to sit, stay and roll over if L tells him to, but it's no use having a criminal mastermind in the palm of your hand if he has no memory of being a criminal mastermind, and what's worse, wanting to keep him there for as long as possible. In his palm, in his bed, in his body and against his lips.
His own affection is sickening and L would have it surgically removed if he could. Like a tumor.
"You care for him," Watari says, because he has never been one to dance around an issue, not even when said issue is one that could perhaps stand to be danced around. "It's not the end of the world. Despite your pretensions, you are not a machine - "
"Disappointing, isn't it?" L bites out, interrupting him. "You always wanted me to be." He immediately regrets it - Watari has done so much for him; done everything, always - but he doesn't apologize.
Watari, for his part, is too used to L's shifting moods to be offended. "I wanted you to be brilliant," he corrects, eyes twinkling with a stern kindness. "You are brilliant." He sounds less like a proud father and more like the inventor that he is, reveling in the success of one of his creations.
He has every right to, though, L admits.
"I trust that your attachment won't interfere with the job?" Watari continues.
"Of course not."
Watari nods. They drink their tea. After a long, barely comfortable silence, he asks, "Then, is it fatherly advice that you're looking for?"
As if L is some child, some little boy who needs to ask - ask - about love and romance and the birds and the bees. As if he couldn't write essays and theses on the chemical reactions in the brain required to create love or lust, adoration and obsession, and all of the terrible feelings in between. He is brilliant and he resents the very notion that he is naive about anything.
"Thank you for the tea," he says flatly, standing from his chair and grabbing a few sugar cubes to take with him. Watari watches him go, not attempting to stop him or soften the blow. He, more than anyone, is used to L's fragile temper, his passive-aggression. L owes the man everything and, with this on his mind, stops in the doorway and says, without turning around, "If I die, do what needs to be done. Incarcerate him. Kill him, if necessary."
L can't see him, but he assumes that Watari nods. "And if you don't die?"
L does look at him then, not sure how to answer that. "If I don't die," he begins slowly, "then the game is still on. Don't do anything, in that case. Just let me play."
Watari nods again. Half his life, L thinks, is made up of nodding.
He thinks that's the end of it, but then, as Watari rises to begin cleaning up the tea things, he says the very last thing L want to hear. "Regarding Beyond," he starts.
"He ought to be killed," L says, cutting him off immediately.
"Yes," Watari agrees.
L knows if he gives the order then that's the end of it. A call will be made, someone will be dispatched, and that loose end will be permanently tied up, never to be unwound. He could bandage the last of his childhood wounds, finally put an end to the monster in his closet. But killing B strikes him with the same horrified revulsion that amputating one of his own limbs would. Even if it were infected, even if there was no saving it and it would probably ultimately kill him, he can't do it.
"I'll get back to you," is all he says. "For now, do nothing."
Watari, predictably, nods.
"Oh, and L?" he calls, when L is halfway through the door. It must be nearing morning now, and if Light's not awake yet, he will be. "You'll need a haircut soon."
L huffs a slight laugh, and it's his turn to nod. If he survives this, if he comes back from today alive, then maybe he'll look into personal grooming.
Light wakes up as L crawls back into bed, ticklish strands of hair brushing his chest and the echoing clink of the handcuffs being reattached ricocheting through his head. L's face is pressed to his sternum, cheek squished against his chest and his heavy eyes are the first thing Light sees when he blinks himself hazily into consciousness. He smells like tea.
"Morning," Light murmurs.
"Mmm," L returns, which is more of a greeting than he usually bothers with
Most mornings, L is already - or still - on his laptop by the time Light gets up, or sorting through print-outs, or even just spread out on his back, staring straight up as if he's trying to crack some invisible code written on the ceiling. Working, working, always working, the unstoppable supercomputer that is L's mind running at full capacity, even when most people are only just sitting down to their morning coffee. That he's cuddled up to Light like some affectionate pet on this day of all days is perhaps unusual, but not unexpected. Light feels as if the they'd both be better served to stay here for the foreseeable future, the case be damned.
Kira is welcome to the world, if only Light can keep L.
Of course, things don't actually work like that, and idealism and positive thinking only go so far. The rest they have to do by themselves. With that in mind, he drags L out of bed, chain wrapped up in his hand, and tugs him into the bathroom where they shower quickly and with little fuss, moving with and around each other as if it had been choreographed beforehand. L looks good naked and dripping wet, and on another day - one where the world wasn't about to possibly end - Light would fuck him against the slick tiled wall, but today is today, so they just wash and dress and go down to breakfast in the kitchen, where Matsuda and Mogi are already set up over a box of fresh donuts.
"I picked them up earlier," Matsuda says, grinning sheepishly, his nervousness blatant. "I thought we could all use a morale booster."
L's eyes go wide and comically pleased when he spies a jelly-filled, quickly going to pluck it up between two long, spindly fingers.
"Matsuda-san," he says, solemn tone clashing with the ridiculousness of the white powder that gets all over his lips, "you are an invaluable member of this team. Don't forget that." Maybe it's meant to be a joke, but L says it so seriously that Matsuda's jaw quivers a little as he blushes gratefully.
"I won't," he promises, too earnest for his own good. "Light-kun," he offers. "I know you're not fond of sweets, but," he starts, cutting off when Light leans over to pluck a glazed up with a napkin.
L's eyes jerk over to him, already so wide that they can't get wider, but Light sees the minor surprise anyway. "What?" he says. "I need the morale boost. Besides, I'm giving half to you."
L seems to find this an acceptable explanation, because he takes the rather large piece that Light rips off for him and shoves it his mouth without pause and Light notes, not for the first time, that L eats even more when he's stressed. If he didn't have such a severely fucked-up metabolism - and he must have some kind of thyroid problem, because otherwise there's no possible way he could eat so much and still remain so bone-ragged thin - then he'd probably gain and lose weight at fluctuating degrees, depending on the state of his cases. It's actually quite unhealthy, but then most things about L are. Originally, Light had even entertained that he was a relatively rare example of male bulimia, but after spending several months with him at every waking moment, he's come to the conclusion that L's body just works in some suitably inhuman way that, regardless of his diet, makes him look as if he's consistently suffering from some sort of wasting disease.
Light watches him polish off several more donuts with vague, fascinated disgust, waiting for Matsuda and Mogi to move into the main room before grabbing him by the wrist. "You're nervous," he says.
"I have reason," L replies, dropping the current donut as if he's suddenly not hungry any more. His legs curl up, knees hitting under his chin, as if he means to wrap himself up and disappear. "If things go as planned, we're going to catch a Kira tonight."
"The Kira, maybe," Light says, even if he doesn't actually believe that Higuchi is the original mastermind behind the operation. Still, the real Kira might try to come to his aid, or maybe Higuchi will give something up if they question him. Anything could happen tonight. "Maybe," he repeats, just to get a taste of the possibilities, "maybe for once in you life you're wrong about something."
L looks at him with blank eyes, eyes that can't see maybe.
"I'm not."
And that should be the end of it, shouldn't it? Light is so much better than this, could have so much better than this - could have anybody, really. There's a model upstairs that spends most of her waking life throwing herself at him, girls, and probably boys, back at university that would sell all of their worldly possessions for even a chance with him. But Light has always been so much better than them, better than everything, better than love and hate and all of those petty abstractions that people get so ridiculous about.
He's better than this man curled up on a chair before him, a pathetic excuse for justice, drained and frail and wrong, wrong, wrong. He's better than this feeling in the pit of his stomach, clawing its way up through his chest like a thing with teeth and jaws and a horrible severity of emotion. Better, he thinks - knows.
Despite that, his hands go out to take L's and he's suddenly leaning forward, looking into those dead eyes that he's become so unreasonably fond of, and trying not to beg L to trust him. He swallows it back, says instead, "No matter what happens - " and is almost glad when L cuts him off because he knows how cliche and weak he's being.
"What are you going to say, Light?" L snaps, tone still flat but angry in a way that Light doesn't think he deserves, given how much he's given L. "Something sweeping and romantic? A promise of everlasting love? That you'll meet me in Paris when this is all over." He huffs a laugh, so biting, the way he gets when things aren't going his way. "Rendezvous on the Eiffel Tower. I'll bring flowers, you'll wear a red dress. It'll be just like those films that put us both to sleep."
He's still rolling his eyes petulantly - stupid, stupid man - when Light grabs him by the face with both hands, makes him stop talking and listen.
"Shut-up," he snaps. Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up. Light has given him everything and so L just needs to shut-up. "You know what I'm going to say. I - "
L doesn't shut-up. In fact, he says two of the worst things he could possibly say. "It doesn't matter," is the first. He's curling even further into his chair now. "You're Kira," is the second.
And he's not. He's not, he's not, he's not. And even if he is - he's not - but if by some strange twist of fate he is - god, L would just be fucking thrilled by that, wouldn't he? - then what does it even matter? L straight-out said that he and Kira are practically the same, serve more or less the same function, and even if Light doesn't truly believe that - because L is better, so much better - it doesn't matter, because L does. L thinks about Kira all the time, L thinks about him when Light is fucking him and when he is fucking Light and what does it matter?
No, no, that's -
"I don't want to be," he says, abruptly, but he sounds so desperate and unsure that he doesn't think that either of them believe it.
L sighs, finally unfurling to set his feet down on the floor, toes wiggling idly. He seems to remember that he's the adult here and that perhaps he should act like it once in a while, because he leans forward to brush Light's hair out of his eyes, expression halfway between fond and disappointed.
"We'll know more after tonight," he says. "Maybe I am wrong, maybe you're completely innocent. I doubt it, but there's always a possibility, a margin for error." His hand slips away as easily as it had come, a wisp of bone and tendon and thin white skin. His voice is low and pathetically comforting. "Whatever you want to say, tell me tomorrow."
Light is smiling, like this is a field trip, a day out, a little on-the-job experience for his portfolio. He stares out of the open door, watching the city below them fade by in a blur of bright lights and distant sounds, sirens cutting loudly into the usual din of Tokyo's nightlife as they chase Higuchi down through the relatively clear air traffic.
"Where did you learn to fly a helicopter?" he asks, turning that smile on L, and L wonders if maybe, just maybe, this isn't the end. Maybe his calculations really have been off, maybe he's been compromised, maybe he's just no good anymore. Maybe Light is just the victim of some horrible plot and they will live happily ever after and ride off into the sunset and actually go to Paris or whatever cliche place people go to when they're mad for each other.
"Over the English countryside," L says, not looking at him. It does, after all, take a bit a minor concentration to keep from crashing into errant skyscrapers. "When I was fourteen."
Light laughs, like this is some sort of brilliant adventure. He looks the way someone might look if they were happy. "That's ridiculous," he says.
"Yes," L agrees, and moves to land on the street below, a veritable army of police cars already congregated around Higuchi. Watari's got his gun ready and Light's brow goes hard, face arranged in an expression of genuine resolve.
Maybe, L thinks.
Light touches the notebook, curiously, and something rocks inside of him and it's sort of like -
Oh. Oh.
He remembers.
Everything shifts sharply into place and then all of those loose ends begin making knots, wrapping themselves up in a web of understanding, spelling out the plans of the Gods, a map of the universe behind his eyes, and he remembers. It terrifies him for a moment, is everything he's been fighting with such valiant determination, but something tilts the axis of the world and the planet begins spinning differently and then it all makes sense. The who and the what and the where all return in a flash, but the why reveals itself more slowly, mounting in a glorious cacophony that rises in up in him like a mountain, like a bridge to the sky.
He is justice.
It's simple. It's a thousand names and a thousand dead and hand-cramps and late nights and complex plans and never stopping, never ever stopping to take a breath - but it's simple, really. He's justice.
Without that, he's just a boy with a notebook and too much time on his hands, and maybe if he were anyone else, if he were less of a person - one of the pointless, mindless millions who drone through their daily lives with no concerns beyond what's for lunch and the cute girl in their class and whether they'll get hired at this firm or that company - maybe then this would all be the wrong thing. But he is justice, it embodies him, lives in his eyes and his clothes and his fingers and his hair that L like so much and -
And L.
L.
Everything stops for a moment, just freezes, his mind treating him to a snow globe view of the last few months - the hands and the lips and the eyes, L's back a fractured arch against the crisp, clean bedsheets, hands scrabbling desperately, hair a mess, eyes shaded black with a sick sort of urgency, gasping desperately as he - as Light -
Light didn't. No, Light wouldn't.
It's a pathetic animal impulse, rutting and grunting, rolling in each other's sweat and spit and semen, clawing each other close. People do it all the time, but people are disgusting, sick animals, too dumb to resist their hormones, letting a chemical reaction of the body control them, rule their actions, blot out their mind, and L - L did that to him.
L is worse than the protector of murderers and rapists and scum, he is one. He's defiled a God, dragged Light down with him, into his dirty pale hands and long thighs and fucking hell - it's rising in him, swirling in his stomach, and he might vomit, he might actually vomit and fuck that's not going to be suspicious or anything, throwing up as soon as he touches the Death Note, great fucking plan, and this is L's fault, L's fault.
He breathes in deep, getting a hold on himself, shoving the sickness down and planting the mask straight across his face, latching it to the skin, becoming Light Yagami, the 18-year-old university student who wants nothing more than to capture Kira and bring him to justice. Yes, yes, he can do this. Of course he can do this.
He is justice.
"Light, are you alright?" L asks, staring at him with those wide eyes, deformed little body curled up, so ugly, ugly.
It makes Light sick just to look at him, that horrible wave of nausea shifting through his belly again, low down, a burning sort of feeling like he needs to pin L down and - no. No. "Fine," he says, pasting on the practiced smile, and he should win a fucking award for this, the way he sells it, L nodding quickly and taking back the notebook.
Higuchi is yelling and the police are running around in a panic, dodging around Rem like she's about to go on some sort of rampage - funny how terrified they are of something so completely useless - and Light doesn't have time for L right now, so he shoves it all down, hiding it in all of those caves he's built just for occasions such as this, and does what needs to be done. The watch comes open easily and Higuchi goes down easily, falling and yelling, a disgrace even in his last few moments. Rem couldn't have given the notebook to a more unworthy person, but it doesn't matter now.
It's back, everything's back to how it should be and -
The chain clinks as Light shifts and the caves crack open and he's flooding, just flooding, doesn't have enough room in his mind to hold all of the thoughts that rush to a forefront. There's a room, and a bed, and in the room and on that bed L had crawled on top of him, had pressed so close and sunk down deep and given him something that he hadn't wanted, that he couldn't have wanted, couldn't, couldn't -
"Sometimes I want to pretend that the only thing that's ever happened to me is you."
Liar.
"You'll kill me someday, won't you?"
Yes. Yesyesyes.
"We do plenty of wrong things for justice, Light."
Higuchi is still yelling and he wants to shut it off, just wants to shut down his brain for a moment, just -
"I will live and die as a force of justice, I will serve my purpose and solve crimes and put criminals away. I will save the people that I can, and I will kill, and torture, and lie, and manipulate, and fuck when I have to. That's just my job."
Stop, stop, stop. He wants it to stop.
And, it does.
The second hand ticks by and Higuchi stops yelling and the mass panic rolls into slow motion, and then everything fades out, like he's moved into a separate world, one that locks sharply on L's voice when he says, "Are you sure you're alright? You look pale," flatly, without a single emotion. Like he hasn't just discovered Kira's murder weapon, like Kira isn't sitting right next to him, even though L of course knows that he is.
Light turns to look at him but he can't speak, he can't breath, he can't -
And he thinks, oh god, he's not ugly, he's not ugly at all at the same time as he thinks how did this happen? He thinks of L bloody and helpless and squirming underneath him, pinned down, trying to get away but unable - unable to do anything but lie there and let Light have him, a sacrifice offered up to a new God, a casualty of war. He thinks of L's neck, his long throat and his bony elbows and the way his skin is so soft and pliable when it should be brittle and thin, winter-tree limbs hanging every which way, a mess of a man.
Light doesn't know his name, but unlike every other person on this earth, his name doesn't seem important. It's an afterthought, one that comes long after his body, and his hair and cock and thick, black eyes. Light is going to kill him and Light is going to fuck him and Light is going to do it all with his own hands, going to tear him apart with fingers that have only written names, because L is not ugly and L is not small and L is not like the rest of them, not really.
L is like him. L is his.
Nothing has changed, and so has everything.
Maybe, L had thought, before.
Now there is a small black notebook on the table in front of him and a giant grey mass of decay and dull glances who calls herself Rem floating at his shoulder. There's a light rain over Tokyo today and Matsuda leans his chin on his palm and watches the outdoor camera views, looking through a window that isn't there. Mogi is getting Aizawa and Ide up to date on the case. Misa is packing her things, preparing to move back into her old apartment. Aiber and Wedy are on one of the balconies, smoking in the rain. Aiber keeps touching her shoulder and Wedy keeps brushing him off with a slow smile. Watari is in the control room. There have been no more calls from B in the last week.
Light is standing a few feet away, neat shadow darkening the ground behind him as the bare fluorescents shine down, casting his normally glowing face in a dull, cold light. The chain still connects them, but Light is standing as far away as possible. He smiles at L, but his eyes keep shifting to the table. The Death Note lies there, a weapon of mass destruction in a plain binding and rigid rules.
And now L thinks, maybe not.
He's read all of the rules multiple times, scanned every page, has had Watari run every test on it that their in-house lab can manage and found nothing -nothing to explain how it is what it is or does what it does. They don't even know if it actually works or if this is just some plant, some cheesy prop that Kira had left behind in order to throw them off of his trail. L would be convinced of that, in fact, were it not for Rem. Gigantic, hulking monsters tend to sell things a bit better than edgy font and gothically stylized designs.
The whole thing reeks of an outdated sort of horror, far more Lovecraft than Conan Doyle, and L certainly knows which he prefers.
The chief comes in, slipping his phone into his pocket. He's been sorting things out with Interpol all night and morning and he looks even more haggard than usual, jaw unshaved and stray lines of grey obvious in his hair. His presence sends the room into a tense silence and L doesn't have to turn around to tell who they're all looking at, and what.
He sighs, picking the Death Note up between his thumb and forefinger, holding it out in front of him like some minorly interesting specimen that he doesn't much want to touch. The room gets tenser.
L rolls his eyes because this is already dull. "It appears Lord Lytton was right," he says. "The pen is indeed mightier than the sword."
Light is the only one who laughs, and not just because he is likely the only person in the room who understands who he is referencing. The quote doesn't translate that well in Japanese and, that aside, no one's in a particularly jovial mood. Light's quiet chuckle dies off quickly and he looks gravely at his hands, so solemn, so perfect, an impeccable actor. It's all perfect, too perfect, and L knows that everything is lost now.
He doesn't know how and he doesn't know when, but Light isn't there anymore. Kira is home and Kira, even with his eyes downcast and his brow quirked serious, is happy.
"I think we should light it on fire," L says, dropping the Death Note back on to the table.
This is, predictably, met with an even more reproachful reaction than his first joke. Deafening silence, and then -
"Ryzuaki, you can't be serious - "
"You saw the rule, you saw what will happen if anything happens to the Death Note - "
"What are you even - Light, what is he even talking about?"
Aizawa's running a frustrated hand through his afro and Ide has jumped out of his chair with the force of this new indignity and Matsuda's up and running around in a panic, headed straight for Light as if he's the only one who can handle this situation - savior as always. Even Mogi looks quietly affronted. The chief's grey patches seem to have gone grayer in the last few seconds. The Shinigami's face is blank as ever, but it still manages to look slightly annoyed by the commotion.
L sits in his chair, waiting for things the die down, because he's gotten what he was looking for. For all the loud and various forms of panic displayed by the members of the investigation team, none are so telling as the momentary terrified widening of Light's eyes, shoved down a second later, but not before L's mind captured the instant, filing it away somewhere in the cavernous libraries of information is his mind. Light is a brilliant actor, but even he cannot control the involuntary actions of the body.
L waits for the soft clearing of the throat that sends the whole room immediately quiet as Light steps forward, assuming his usual position as representative of the sane and reasonable public against L's arsenal of horrifying and offensive theories and suggestions.
"Ryuzaki," he says, sounding so perfectly, flawlessly concerned that L knows it's not real, "what do you mean?"
There's a sharp, narrowed bend to the words, hidden behind the familiar long-suffering politeness.
L swivels his chair, head tipping to the side. "I mean that Wedy probably has a lighter and - "
"No, I mean, you read the rules, right?" Light asks, walking forward; the champion of the people, approaching the lion's den. "There's one that says that if any harm comes to the Death Note then everyone who's touched it will die. That's everyone on the investigation team, yourself included, not to mention an unlimited number of people who could have possibly come into contact with it before now."
He's giving L that soulful, imploring look, very much in the vein of, Don't you have any decency at all? Funny, but a day ago that look had come off more like, I know you're better than this. What a difference - undetectable, to the untrained eye, but still, a difference - a few hours and a little black book can make.
"Yes, I did see that rule," L says. "I have a theory."
"A theory," Light repeats, a note of mounting annoyance in his voice.
"Yes."
The taskforce is watching them, a hushed audience to the spectacle, the always inevitable show-down. Hero vs. villain. It says something for either Kira's manipulative abilities or else L's own failing convictions that he has, of late, been unsure of which of them is which.
"And?" Light asks, arms crossing regally across his chest.
"And," L says, wishing he had something to chew on, to busy his hands with, but knowing that Watari's got too much to do at the moment to be able to see to his every odd dietary whim, "I believe that that rule is a fake."
This, if possible, results in an every larger commotion than the previous announcement. His popularity - questionable as it's always been - is flagging quickly. Somehow or another, L isn't overly bothered by this.
"A fake rule?" Aizawa repeats, arms going up in a mad flail or incomprehension. "Why would there be a fake rule? Shinigami," he says, turning to Rem, "is there a fake rule?" The thing doesn't respond, just floats there looking rather hangdog. L appreciates that it, at least, isn't shouting. "Hey!" Aizawa snaps, trying to get its attention, apparently unperturbed by its status as a god. Of death, maybe, but a god nonetheless, and that surely means something.
"I also have a theory about another rule," L says, plucking at his lip.
Light's expression grows tighter. "Let me guess - "
"The 13 day rule is also likely faked," he continues, paying little heed to the rest of the team. They make their protestations and denials, expressing their disapproval as loudly as possible, but L is only paying attention to one person's reactions; the rest is just white noise, filtered out by the immensity of its unimportance.
Light's teeth grit into a irritated smile. "Convenient."
"Isn't it?"
It's contrived, is what it is. This whole thing, the way it works out perfectly in Light's favor - as things always seem to do - feels more like a scripted drama than a natural occurrence of chance. It's a game, and Kira has been playing with pieces that L hadn't even known about. It makes sense that he would take precautions, given the inevitability of L eventually discovering the Death Note, sniffing out the secret weapon. It's insurance, and it's probably been in place for months, stage all set up for the performance. And the show is on now.
"Well, why can't we test that one?" Matsuda asks, inoffensive only in his cluelessness. "At least that way none of us will die."
"Matsuda!" The chief snaps, ever the paragon of morality. Just like his son.
"What? I mean - I'm just saying." Matsuda slinks back into his chair, hand going sheepishly to scratch at the back his head and Soichiro turns his stern disapproval on L.
"You can't still suspect my son, Ryuzaki," he says, and at that moment L would very like to tell him about the time that Light had held him to the wall, face forward, hand on the back of his neck and body pressed down on him like a weight, digging purple bruises into his skin and whispering with hot breath into his ear about how pretty L looked like that.
"Is it because you can't see my face?" L had asked after, that ever-useful bend of vulnerability evoked in his voice, just another strategy, and a successful one at that. Light's tone had faltered, hand stroking his shoulder, when he'd said, "Yeah, probably."
He doesn't recite that particular scene for the team, though, despite how amusing the look on Light's face would surely prove to be. He just tilts his head, playing dull instead of clever, and says, "Can't I?"
Because he is L and he is, with the arguable exception of Kira himself, the most powerful man in the world. If he chose, he could have all of them incarcerated and facing charges in under ten minutes for failing to cooperate with an investigation regarding international security. Interpol wouldn't help him, of course, but they wouldn't stop him, either. They never stop him. If he were a different man - or maybe the same man he is now, only with different interests - he could have the world flipped on its head in under six months, could do or change or fix or break anything. He is 24 years old and he is raw power, a man who is a letter who is the law.
The sentiment, though not specific, hangs heavy in he air around him, and it's clear that everyone in the room feels it. Even Light. He lets it settle there, taut and uncomfortable, a brief nod to what he could do, if he wanted to, before he sighs uninterestedly and stands straight up from his chair.
"I suppose, given the evidence, it would be highly unethical for me to hold you any longer, wouldn't it, Light-kun?" he asks, and there's a palpable, if not audible, breath let out by the team at large. L doesn't actually have any interest in directly antagonizing them at this point, now that they've served most all of the functions they possibly could for him. He just wants to make it understood that he has the undeniable option to.
Light eyes him steadily. "That's right."
"Come along, then." L doesn't glance at him, just shuffles off toward the elevator. "The key to the handcuff chain is up in our room."
It's still funny to think of them having a room, though it's been months now. L and Kira, bunking together. L's slept with many people, but he's lived with very few, and those he has - save Watari, of course - have never parted from him on good terms. Come to think of it, he doesn't know that he's ever parted from anyone on good terms, given that he's either leaving criminals behind bars or police officers and government officials upstaged in the wake of his prowess. He doubts anyone on the Kira taskforce will remember him fondly when this is over.
If this is ever over. It will have to be at some point, he knows. Maybe some point soon.
Light, given no other option, follows him to the elevator, and L lets a heavy pause weigh them all down before mumbling, "We'll discuss this in more detail later. For now, continue your correspondence with Interpol and inform me of any updates on the current situation." He puts his finger out, but pauses over the button for their floor, flicking his eyes towards the back of the room. "Oh, and Matsuda? I'm putting you in charge of the Death Note in my absence. Please watch over it carefully."
It's very much worth any possible risks to the investigation this might pose to see Light's eyes go wide and his throat spasm a bit, presumably choking back whatever vehement protest he wants to make. And it's obvious then, more obvious than Kira should probably be, how attached to the thing he is. Just a little black notebook.
L jabs the button and as the doors to the elevator close, he can't help his chipper, if slightly schadenfreude-based amusement at the exchange that echoes after them.
"Everyone keep Matsuda out of reach of writing utensils," Aizawa says, only partly sounding like he's joking.
"Hey, you guys know I'd never write anyone's name down!"
"Not on purpose, but you're always accidentally recording your case notes on important documents."
"That was one time!"
The key is not upstairs and they both know that the key is not upstairs. L has pulled it out of nowhere enough times that he's sure Light has noticed. He notices everything, the beautiful mind, and so L is prepared for questions and accusations, all of the usual. But he shouldn't be, he realizes quickly, because this Light is not the Light he is used to. He's gone from wild and boyishly determined to stark and calculating, no longer secure enough in his innocence to risk acting even slightly suspicious. And that's where he's faltering, where he's always faltered. The overcompensation, the need to plot and act and even kill to a tee, perfect even in his criminality.
There is always an aura of perfection to Light, of course, and he is never unstudied or artless, but something is still different now. It's not a fact so much as a feeling, and deplorable as it may be, L does most of his best work on feelings, that sick strangling in the gut that tells him that this is his man - or woman or child or group. He is methodical in his intuitions, but they still rule him in most cases. There are some things that logic cannot account for. Things like Death Notes and Shinigami and the way that Light looks at him sometimes, in the coolest hours of the morning when their feet knock against each other and bright glow of L's laptop screen is upstaged by the warm puff of Light's breath, and -
And L has to let this go.
The past few months are gone and the boy he spent them with isn't going to come back - he's 90% sure, anyway - and if he ever does, L vows to have enough evidence by then to convict him, anyway. Behind bars with all the rest of them, or else dead and forgotten.
So, he lets it go.
Now what does he do?
"What is this about?" Light asks, voice trying to be kind but not quite managing. He tugs L closer with the chain, probably a measured gesture to inspire familiarity, but L commits to not letting it work. "You can't still seriously think that I'm - "
"Maybe I just don't want you to leave."
L's not sure when he decides to say it, but he does. He can't continue to outright accuse Light, not if he wants to stay alive long enough to catch him up. He needs to gather evidence and in order to get evidence, he needs Light to act. Unless he's already acted? Higuchi - that's something. How did he kill Higuchi? He couldn't have had Misa do it, as she was stuck here and still, presumably, has no memory of being Kira, unless Light has somehow managed to restore it to her without them even coming in contact with each other. But then how does one return memory, anyway? How did Light do it? Did the Shinigami do it for him or did it just happen automatically when he touched the Death Note? Maybe when Higuchi died, the ownership reverted to Light - but no, no, someone had to kill Higuchi and that person could only be Light.
And so even if it's the most blatant lie he could possibly tell, he needs to keep up appearances just a little longer. And then -
He will do his job.
They go through the familiar routine like automatons. Light runs a careful hand up L's neck and through his hair, turning him around to meet his eyes, but the movements are stilted, virgin-awkward, like they haven't done this dozens of times. Light's inflection is even slightly off when he says, "I'm not - I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay at headquarters. I'll stay. Don't worry."
He looks down at L with those soulful eyes of his and it's really quite nauseating from this distance. A day ago, this had meant something inexpressible, had opened up wells in L's mind from which contradicting, twisting thoughts had flown like water, infecting every bit of him. Spreading like a disease. Light is the disease and Kira, it seems, is the cure.
L feels nothing now. He is, to take a page from the book of cliches that he so despises, empty. He is cured.
"And don't do anything stupid because of me," Light says, which to him just sounds like, The harder you peruse me as a suspect, the sooner you will die. And so L answers in kind.
"I'm sorry, Light-kun, but it's far too late for that." He pulls the key from his pocket then, not bothering to try to conceal it. It doesn't matter anymore. He unlocks the cuffs with two sharp clicks, then turns away, going over to stare at the bed. The sheets are neat and tucked-in at the edges, the way Light always does them up. It's a bit jarring to realize that Light isn't going to do that anymore. "You should sleep. Watari's set up a bedroom for you on the floor above this one."
There are creases in the sheets, and he wants to smooth them out, but doesn't.
"What are you going to do?" Light asks, folding up the chain with a series of tinny clinks and setting it neatly on the bed, coming unsettlingly close to L as he does.
L doesn't look at him. "I think I could use some rest, too."
He thinks Light waits there for some kind of tearful goodbye or reaction of the like, but doesn't get one and, shortly after, leaves, fading footsteps swallowed by the carpeting. L stares at the bed. He means to climb into it, but he just stays standing there, tracing the creases with his eyes and trying to decide how to take down Light Yagami.
The first thing Light has to do is figure out how much time he has. L has no proof and he isn't going to get proof, but he still poses a threat and Light is going to have to get rid of him before he embarks on a new strategy. He doesn't seem to have noticed anything different about Light yet, and so that buys him a bit of time.
A week, he'll say. Light will give himself a week to get it all out of his system, to - if he wants to use a crass saying - play with his food before he kills it. Give L one last thrill, or even a few more, before he puts him down. Today is October 29th, so if he hasn't killed L by November 5th, he'll do it that day. He pencils the date neatly into his mind, adding it to his inner-schedule. It feels very distant at the moment, almost mundane, like a dentist appointment or an errand he's been meaning to run. It's all about scheduling, about keeping his affairs in order.
With the when taken care of, that brings up the question of the how. Light doesn't think he'd ever fully appreciated the convenience of the Death Note, but now that he's considering other methods of judgement, it strikes him with full force and he begins measuring out the practicalities. It's all well and good to think about fucking L into an early grave - a hand around his throat, a pillow to his face, just a bit of pressure and that frail body of his could come apart - but the reality of actually killing someone in person is a bit more difficult. It's not that he doubts his resolve, is in fact rather… excited by the prospect, it's just much more complex to cover up. He'd need an alibi, he'd need to remove his fingerprints and, of course, if there's evidence of sexual activity immediately prior to the death, there would naturally be a suspicion of rape.
The whole thing is just very messy. The problem is that there is a raw and gnawing hunger deep in Light that craves messy like it does nothing else. L's name is one thing and he'll have Misa get it just for insurance, but it means very little to Light now, which is a startling contrast to before. It's the body that he sees breaking when he closes his eyes, and he doesn't think it will truly feel like a victory if he doesn't get to realize that vision.
And that aside, killing L with the Death Note feels oddly wrong. Too impersonal. Too common. L may be a criminal for defying Kira the way he does, but he's anything but common. He should have a death worthy of a man of his level.
Maybe he could write that in the Death Note. Give him a proper send off. Make him do whatever Light wants before he dies. Anything. The idea sparkles where is forms in his mind and Light can't let it go.
Still, he needs the name. He needs Misa. Or Rem, perhaps, but that's not important at the moment. He has a week. The question he needs to ask himself right now is, what is he going to do with this week?
L's door isn't locked and it's as easy as blinking to get into the room. Unimpeded movement is a curious freedom that Light still isn't used to after being deprived of it for months on end, but he'd moved easily through the halls, navigating the building as if he owns it. L hasn't been seen downstairs and Light had been expecting to find him hunched over his screen, agonizing and obsessing, playing voyeur as usual. Finding him sprawled across the bed and very much asleep is a pleasant surprise, though one that lends a different angle to the situation when he leans in to press his lips to L's jaw, fingers skirting the edges of his shirt.
His skin is warm and he wakes with an odd start the way he always does, jerking into consciousness rather than entering it slowly, wide eyes scrambling and body going rigid against Light's. He breathes out in a huff, turning around and shoving his palm out in an upward thrust, hitting Light in the jaw.
"Fuck!"
Light catches himself on the edge of the bed, pain morphing into a thick pulse of rage as he dodges out of L's reach.
L sits up, matted hair following behind him to fall flatly across his eyes. "Sorry," he says, without a bit of inflection. He looks at Light with something sharply ungenerous in his eyes, as if his being here is a violation rather than a return to the norm. Light doesn't like it.
"I just came up to check on you," he says, sitting up and rubbing at his chin.
"With your lips?" L says, pulling his legs up to his chest. Even curled into the fetal position, he still looks oddly calm and cold, as if he's the one who had caught Light asleep - as is usual - and not the other way around.
"You've never minded before."
L doesn't respond to that and Light takes it as a cue to move closer, hand coming up to catch L's jaw in a slightly rough grip - an eye for an eye, after all - thumb stroking along the bottom of his lips. The way a lover might. Heh, lover. It's ridiculous, but it's also true, and made even more ridiculous by that fact.
Light thinks about snapping his neck then and there and it sends a pulse of something through his stomach. Fantasy is not reality, though, and even if the bones snap like twigs in his mind, in truth the human body is actually rather durable. More than that, as guarded as he is now, L would probably fight back tooth and nail, and in criminal investigations defensive wounds often provide definitive evidence. Light is not some common brute and he won't sink to the level of struggling for his victory. It will come to him, in time.
A week, he tells himself. Just a week.
So instead of killing L, he kisses him, a soft pressure of the lips to drag him in. L is warm and soft with sleep and Light would just sink into him if -
L pulls away, almost absently, and glances out the window and into the black sky and bright lights of the city. "What time is it?"
"Night," Light says, settling back. "Is something wrong?"
L isn't acting different, not really, but there's something off in him. A change, as if everything has skipped a beat and they've gone from living on the same wavelength to being on completely different pages, a world away from one another. It's only as a matter of course, maybe, but it's still odd. L feels far away and Light wants him close, a solid presence to latch onto.
"What time of night?" L says, not answering the question.
Light flicks his hair out of his eyes. "I don't know. Late. Most everyone's gone home." L's gaze shifts quickly to him at that. "Just for the night."
The chain still lies folded on he bed where he had left it, where L had fallen asleep a few inches from it on top of the blankets. It glints in the light from skyscrapers, cutting a glare across the dark room. Light can't quite help himself and reaches out to pick it up, the familiar sound shooting through him like a sense memory, but even though it's only been a day since he's gotten his memory back, all of that feels very distant. Like a dream he'd had once.
Love, he'd told himself. He supposes that without the Death Note he'd had no particular purpose, no meaning to his life, and it seems that people have a habit of tricking themselves into finding meaning in other people and the sense of infatuation that can sometimes flood them. Misa is a prime example. Light hates to compare himself to her in any possible way, but in another life -
An alternate universe. That is his alternate universe, a world, a him without the Death Note makes him weak and confused and susceptible to manipulation. The upside is that L's manipulated himself in the bargain, fallen for that boy without a notebook and is thus waiting there on the ground for the real Light.
It briefly strikes him that L might not feel the same about him now, but - no, no that's impossible. With the Death Note he is better and stronger and smarter in every way. Who would choose a child over a God? Not anyone of L's intelligence, surely, and anyway, it's not as if he'll be given time to deliberate over it. One week is all they have together. Light is going to make it count.
Perhaps he should be kind, perhaps he should lure L in with soft words and false promises, but L is a genius - despite his many flaws - and it doesn't take one to know what Light wants, so instead of beating around that proverbial bush, he just leans in to him, meeting those wide, deer-in-the-headlights eyes and says, "Take your clothes off."
one week later.
Even when he hasn't yet said anything, everything about Mello has a tendency to be very loud. The look on his face as Roger finishes off his speech with a thick cough and an apology is a familiar precursor to the oncoming storm. Roger coughs again, just to put it off. It rather fails to work.
"What do you mean 'gone?'" he demands, hands slamming down on the desk and sending the pens ratting. "He can't be gone. He's got a fucking mass murderer to catch. Where did he go?"
His hair slopes down, framing his face in thick gold and making him look younger than he is, even as his voice gets louder with every word. If Roger hadn't already lived through plenty of Mello's tantrums, he might actually be slightly intimidated now, but it's a boy who cried wolf situation. If you make a scene at every little thing - bad test score, scraped knee, not enough chocolate milk - when the time comes that an event is actually worth the dramatics, it fails to make an impression.
Roger coughs into his handkerchief again. "Language, Mello."
He glances at Near, who's reaction - or lack thereof - is also unsurprising. After over fifteen years of this, Roger is used to dealing with unbalanced geniuses.
Quillish had said once that if Mello and Near were to morph into one person, they would be more capable than even L himself, a sort of super-detective. At the time, Roger had just laughed and said how morbid a thought it was, but now he's entertaining it as very good sense.
"He's not dead," Mello insists, a frantic sort of desperation skirting the edges of his voice.
"No," Roger says," no, it's not confirmed." But he knows very well that it's clear what he believes. He'd said it was a bad idea from the start, going straight out and revealing himself to Kira, that it couldn't end well. Not to L directly, of course, but he'd conveyed the sentiment through Quillish. In typical fashion, his advice had been ignored.
"He can't be dead." Mello is shaking his head. "That's not - that can't happen. Not to L."
The soft sound of cardboard puzzle pieces clicking into place echos familiarly throughout the room. "What do you think we're being trained for?" Near asks the floor, lolling on his stomach as usual. "It's a dangerous job. It stands to reason that L would die young. His successor will also probably meet the same fate."
Mello's hair flicks in a straight arch as he swerves around to face his classmate, hands balling into fists. Near, also as usual, does not seem impressed, and doesn't flinch at the bite in Mello's tone when he barks, "Unless you actually have something to contribute to this investigation, shut-up."
"Investigation?" Near asks, looking up, but not at Mello.
Roger meets the boy's gaze. Everyone says how similar he is to L - in manner, in temperament, in brilliance - and although Roger can see the likeness, he puts little stock in it. Maybe it's because he, of all of the staff at Wammy's, has been here from the beginning. He had seen L from childhood to a fully grown man, and had, more than anything, spent a number of years with an actual copy of L, who to this day strikes him as being far more accurate a reproduction than anything that Near might be, even with those deep, unreadable eyes of his.
He looks from Near to Mello to his hands where they're folded before him and sighs, shaking his head.
Mello's back at his desk then, setting all the knick-knacks within a few feet wobbling precariously. "We have to find him," he insists, eyes wide. "We're going to find him, right? He could be - he could have been kidnapped or something."
"Kira has never kidnapped anyone before," Near chimes in from the floor. Mello whips around again, spinning like a little yellow top.
"How the hell would you even know what Kira's done and not done? Are you guys pen-pals?"
"It hasn't shown up in any of the case material we've been given to review, nor has it - "
"Okay, well maybe it wasn't Kira." Mello latches onto the idea as soon as he says it and something in Roger wells up. Grief, he knows, is as desperate as it is all-consuming. "There are plenty of scumbags out there just dying to get their hands on him, maybe his identity was leaked and some random criminal found him?"
Near sighs, as if Mello's emotions are bothersome. "In that case, they would likely just kill him as well."
The way Mello's face splits with blinding rage is Roger's cue. "I swear to God, if you don't - "
"Boys," he says in his most authoritative voice. He has many voices, and although he prefers to used kindly, Mello - who's existence operates through one panic attack after another - tends to bring out others. "We can't know the situation at this point. We'll wait for more information before we proceed. But, I do think it would be wise to start considering which one of you - "
"No." It sounds strange, a word so hard and immovable, spoken in a child's voice. He's barely 15, Roger remembers, and watches with a thin mix of sympathy and aggravation as Mello clenches his trembling fists.
"Mello," he says calmly, "please don't interrupt."
"No." It's not an issue he's willing to be moved on, that much is clear. "Not while he's still alive. We have to find him."
He sets his bright blue eyes on Roger then, staring at him imploringly, as if this is something he could fix if only he would try. If it were as simple as a detention, as simple as allowing Mello one more chocolate bar, then this is the point where Roger would concede, but the fact is that there's simply nothing for him to do here beyond waiting for news and looking after his own side of things.
"We're doing everything we can," he says, ending the word on a cough, which he spends several seconds hacking into his handkerchief.
"Yeah, from England. We should go to Japan," Mello says. "We should go to the source."
Roger shakes his head, thinks of standing up but doesn't, just wrings his hands fitfully. "You know we can't do that."
"Why not?" Mello's anger morphs into charm suddenly, and he's grinning like a devil with a cherub's face, leaning on Roger's desk with something bright in his eyes. "We've been due for a class field trip for a while now."
Roger sighs again, rubbing at his temples. It is perhaps difficult for most grown men to argue respectfully with children without some measure of either condescension or cruelty, but he likes to think that he's had enough practice by now to manage it. "Mello," he says, with not a small amount of admiration in his voice, "your passion is inspiring, but the realities of the situation are more complicated than that, and - "
The smile drops from Mello's face and shoves off of the desk.
"Yeah," he says. "I get it." He looks down at Near, who clicks his final puzzle piece into place and gives no more reaction than that. He looks back at Roger, lip curling. "Fuck this." He's barefoot and the sound of his footfalls on the wood floors are not quite as heavy as they'd be with his usual boots on as he stomps out of the room, but the effect is virtually the same.
Roger coughs and feels that that hadn't gone as well as it could have.
"He certainly has a flair for the dramatic, doesn't he?" he says, mostly to himself. He doubts Near will appreciate any attempts at levity.
"Yes," he says, sitting up and twisting an idle hand through his hair. "Perhaps you should follow him."
Roger pushes his glasses a bit up his nose. "Why's that?"
Near picks up the puzzle and turns it upside down, letting all of the pieces fall to the floor in a thick stream, hitting the wood floor with solid sounds, and says, "Because I don't think he's going to come back."
tbc.
end notes: I hope you like horrible, creepy sex, because there's going to be a lot of that next chapter. I hope you like obsession and self-loathing, too - but of course you do, otherwise you wouldn't have made it this far in the fic. Also, I hope you like Mello. This story is going to have a lot of Mello at some point, assuming I can get to that point anywhere in the next thousand years. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, etc. You are all amazing human beings.
side-note: I now have a death note centered tumblr in addition to my regular tumblr (there's a link to both on my profile). Feel free to follow me if you are masochistic or else really bored. I sometimes talk about Nights and sometimes talk about how WRITING IS HARD OMG!1! but mostly I just reblog a lot of fanart.