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L looks good in red when he’s playing coy on Light’s sheets, maroon satin making him glow so he looks more like a dream than a living, breathing person.
Breathing. Right.
L’s not breathing.
The rise and fall of L’s chest stutters, then stops, a wet gasp tearing the air. Blood erupts from the wound on his head, a crimson tide that drowns the world in slow motion. It pours and pours, relentless, painting Light’s hands and seeping into every groove of his skin, the same way L has seeped into every shadow and heartbeat of his existence.
L. His L. The treat he'd saved all for himself ruined by Asahi.
A stretcher arrives to steal L away and leave Light bathed in crimson, Omega Speedmaster fractured and glinting. Maybe the crack came after he tried to drag L from Asahi’s grip, a darkness like ink spilling through his mind, blurring the edges of his vision. Numbness settles in when he remembers blue lips, the ghost of his own hands pressed to the old man’s throat.
All he can think of is L, L, L, L.
Light stands, one knee threatening to buckle. The courtroom is quiet as all eyes fall upon him.
“If more proof was needed to cement Asahi’s danger to society, let this be your red herring.”
The stares slide off him, meaningless. He bolts from the courtroom, sprinting with a dedication he usually saves for those showy company mile runs, adrenaline pumping, fists sticky with dried blood as he catches sight of the ambulance. The paramedic is about to lock the door when Light grabs the handle, thrusting it open to climb inside.
“Sir, you can’t, this is–”
“I will be with him.” Light says, hair wild, eyes wide. “There will be problems if you deny me. I’m Los Angeles' best lawyer.”
The young man, fresh out of college, hesitates before he turns to what Light realizes must be his superior.
“Close the door,” the superior barks, gathering medical supplies faster than what it takes to get the engine roaring. “You, sit there.”
In the corner is a plastic bench that Light immediately falls into.
"I need you to breathe for me,” She’s saying to L as she pries his hands away from his face. “Stay with me. Focus on my voice.”
L refuses to keep his hands away from his face, and that nice tone won’t work on him when he’s defiant. It’s Light, always Light, that has to fix everything, hauling himself near L’s stretcher and hissing a low, “L, hands.”
L’s eyes flutter open, unfocused, the whites streaked with red. Light’s stomach knots , nausea clawing up his throat until every word he wants to say melts into a useless, shivering breath.
"It hurts," L whimpers, so pitifully that Light aches to shake him, to haul him upright and insist he’s fine, that nothing bad can ever happen to him.
If Asahi isn’t dead, Light will finish the job himself.
“We can clean the blood at the hospital. I need to find your head wound.” The paramedic motions to her younger cohort for more gauze. He passes the roll wordlessly, his fresh face and bright eyes an easy target for Light’s anger as he snarls a low, “Please, any slower. It’ll make the lawsuit easier.”
The superior’s gaze sharpens.
“You need to keep him calm,” she orders, staring at Light like L is invisible, like Light’s fury is some petty nuisance instead of the only thing holding him together while his universe bleeds out on a stretcher. They should be on a plane to Japan, hammering the final nail into Asahi’s coffin, not trapped in this fluorescent hellhole.
It isn’t fair. Light can’t keep pretending, can’t keep flashing that perfect smile when every piece of him is unraveling, thread by golden thread.
L can die. The man he always thought of as invincible is merely flesh and bone and nerves, and Light grips the guardrails to steady himself against that realization.
“L, they’re trying to help you. There’s nothing to fight,” Light says, the type of words that might soothe him if he were on the stretcher, one hand over L’s chest to rub in comforting circles. “I’m here.”
L grunts in pain once pressure is applied over his forehead, chest arching up into Light’s touch, as if the contact is his only tether. Light takes L’s fists, letting those nails dig into his own palm instead.
Light’s voice softens, doesn’t care what the paramedics hear because it’s just him and L. “I’m here, and I’m not letting you go that easily. I can’t let you give up that easily. Deep breaths, count with me.”
He counts, slow, until L’s shoulders lose their tension. The driver is saying something upfront about the medical staff being ready, and the door is ripped open faster than Light can think to say goodbye.
“Stand back!”
They whisk L away in a blur of scrubs and urgency. Light stumbles after, heart jackhammering, sweat prickling his upper lip as L’s bed vanishes through the double doors and-
A nurse stops him.
“Sir, you can't enter. That's the operating theater hallway.”
"He needs me," Light insists, incredulous. How can they not see? L’s calm was his doing. Don’t they realize they’re inseparable?
“I understand, but friends and family need to wait outside."
“I’m not–”
Light stops himself, jaw clenching.
I’m not his friend or his family. I’m his everything.
God, it sounds so stupid in his head. If he says it aloud, they might think he needs to be admitted, too.
“They’ll need some time. You can wait out here,” the nurse says, unmoved. Light drops into one of their ugly green chairs with an unnecessary huff, so they know he’s fuming.
He buries his head in his hands, eyes widening as he notices blood soaking into the eyelets of his custom leather shoes.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
“Light Yagami?”
The intonation is all wrong, but Light lifts his head anyway, too wrung out to care about how he’s addressed. Hours have blurred together, and the scent of dried blood clings to his skin. He remembers washing his face and hands, red swirling away in the hospital sink, feeling nothing at all.
He must look ridiculous.
The receptionist had guided him to the gift shop when his bad mood simmered into self pity. She must have felt sorry for him when she offered gloves and a plastic bag as he traded his ruined clothes for a black shirt stamped in gold: I’m a survivor. Apparently, half the money he paid will go to cancer research. It’d be a noble thing he could boast about if he didn’t keep picturing his expensive suit balled up in plastic, and the man he’d give his life for left somewhere behind closed doors, fate’s plaything.
The world is mocking him. That, he’s sure of.
“Mr. Lawliet is requesting you.”
Requesting. The word certainly feels like L has said it, Light thinks as he’s led down a grim hallway. There’s a little window at the door, red and green lights from various machines casting an ominous hue. The room is dark, a bathroom to the left before the space opens to frame a big bed surrounded by multiple monitors.
L is upright, head bandaged, the only visible eye he has open and puffy. Red, like he’d been crying. Light swallows the anger clawing at his chest, the ache in his stomach twisting tighter, tighter.
“L,” Light says carefully. Damp hair clings to pale skin, the red washed away, leaving only the ghost of what almost was.
“Light,” L croaks, but it sounds more like an answering call, a thing done out of muscle memory more than acknowledgment.
“The doctor will be here in a minute,” the nurse says. “He’s all right for now, but he’s on strict bed rest.”
Light nods, notes the crescent marks on L’s palm and wrists, remembering the sting of fingernails on him in the ambulance. L has been in pain, Light feeling the echo of it.
“He’s on morphine, so he might be sleepy, but his condition is stable.”
“Thank you,” Light says, relieved when the nurse disappears.
The room is quiet, save for the beep, beep, beep of machines.
“L. Listen, L-”
“I don't want to listen,” L says, eye falling shut. “You talk so much when you’re upset, and I’m tired.”
Light isn't ready for an argument, lips shut as he takes L’s hand, the one without the catheter, into his. He’s so cold, Light decides to heat his cheeks and hands with his warm palms.
If the doctor thinks anything of their clasped fingers, they keep it to a minimum. Only clinical things are being said: L’s eyes are fine, but irritated. He needed three stitches and has severe bruising of the occipital arch. He'd lost enough blood for a transfusion. He'll need to stay overnight and possibly tomorrow, but he’s expected to make a full recovery. The doctor mentions L not having eyebrows making everything easier. They would have needed to shave them off.
Light nods along, but the L in front of him is no embodiment of any of the hopeful words being said.
“We've called the emergency contact he has on file. A Quillsh Wammy?
“Yes,” Light says, eyes on L, afraid he’ll disappear if he looks away even for a moment. “That's correct.”
As if on cue, the old man enters with a bag in hand, a deep sigh leaving hi as he takes in the sight of L. Light doesn't even get a hello when he says, “This is not what I meant when I said you needed to take risks, L.”
“I knoooow,” L croaks out, something childlike in his voice always brought out by Watari’s presence. “Is that an overnight bag?”
“Yes, but you have enough for two weeks.”
L makes a weak sound of relief, quiet when he asks, “Did you bring it?”
From the main pocket of the duffle bag emerges a sherpa blanket. One side is fluffy and white; the other is soft microsuede. L’s cheek rubs against the suede, eyes falling shut and sighing.
It's the only texture he likes to feel as he falls asleep. Light knows this, stilling when his shoulder is turned into a pillow. L’s head smells of antiseptic, the ends slowly fluffing up as it dries.
“The hospital has asked me if I'd like to stay, but I told them I'd relinquish responsibilities to Light Yagami.”
“Ah,” L’s eyes flutter open. “You’ll probably go back to your apartment for a bit, won't you, Light?”
“Of course not,” Light says immediately, scoffing. Why would L think otherwise? Did he not see the blood on Light’s clothes? Does that not translate to commitment?
“Considering your shirt paints you as the victim, I’m sure it’s safe to say you’re suffering in your own way.”
“Shut up. This was all they had at the gift shop,” Light retorts. “My clothes were full of blood. I was a biohazard.”
“It’s settled.” Watari cuts in, no stranger to their arguments. “They said if you’re doing well enough, you can leave tomorrow evening. I can bring you to your apartment-”
“No,” L says petulantly, because things always need to go per his needs. “I’ll be staying with Light. Reporters will be all over my place.”
Right. The case and the media. Light had completely forgotten.
“Perfect. I’ll bring another bag with essentials tomorrow."
Never mind that Light hasn’t agreed to anything, but he stays quiet as L burrows into his favorite blanket. He would have offered, anyway. L is delicate, breakable. Light won’t risk upsetting him, won’t let the media catch even a glimpse of his tired face.
He brushes L’s hair, kissing his head with a gentle coo as the nurse comes with a hesitant, “Mr. Lawliet, you have a visitor.”
“Hm?” L pipes up. “Who…?”
“A Miss Amane?”
Light grits his teeth. Stupid Misa making a commotion. Surely the reporters would have seen her come. L seems to mull it over before he lifts his head from Light’s shoulder with a small, “I’ll allow her in.”
When she enters, her blonde hair is unrecognizable under a brown wig, sunglasses hiding her blue eyes. Beside her, Rem is wearing a shawl.
“L,” Misa gasps, immediately hurrying to his side.”L, I’m so sorry,” she pouts, sunglasses discarded on the bed, hands placed along the guardrail. Light appreciates that she's keeping her hands to herself.
“I completely misunderstood you. I can’t tell you how thankful I am that you put yourself in such a scary situation for my sake.”
“My pleasure. Happy to risk my life for the job,” L says, but Misa seems oblivious to the sarcasm hidden under his usual monotonicity.
“Oh, Light, I don’t know how to thank you, too. Asahi is in the ICU. He looked awful when they took him away.”
Good, Light thinks, but he smiles instead, eyes like charming little half moons: the same boyish smile he’s perfected in every mirror since childhood. A safe mask that’s never let him down.
“Misa, L needs rest. I think you should rest, too.”
“You’re always so thoughtful," Misa warbles, immediately coming around to place a kiss on Light’s cheek. “I know you said you have someone else in mind, but if you ever… if you ever change your mind, I promise I’d be the best wife ever.”
Rem clears their throat, and L, still weak on medication, gives a small, "I don’t want visitors anymore.”
“Of course. I’ll let you sleep,” she says, oblivious as always, still beaming as Light offers more of his polite declinations and apologies and thank you’s. Misa hurries out the door just as quickly as she’d come, the room enveloped in beeps again.
L gives a low grumble.
“What?”
“Nothing,” L says, but the medication does nothing to soften the petulance in his voice. “I recall you saying you dispelled Misa’s limerance.”
“I told her I have somebody else.“ Light says through a tense jaw.
“Ah. What an effort you made.”
“Don’t you fucking start,” Light hisses, close so his nose is brushing up against L’s. “I almost killed a man in court for you, and you’re jealous of a delusional teenager. Can you spare me the dramatics?”
“No.” L sniffs. “I never asked you to do all of that anyway.”
Light gives a rough exhale, eyes on L when he says, “If you died, I was going to find his hospital bed and finish the job.”
There’s a glint in L’s eyes, something like a spark through the morphine that Light recognizes. He leans close, kisses L’s forehead to whisper, “Asahi should have known not to touch what’s mine.”
“I’m yours now? Just an object?” L says in the silence. Not an accusatory sentence, but a test he’s placed out in the open. What specific string of words will emerge from Light’s lips, and will they be true?
“Resign yourself to whatever interpretation you want. It doesn’t change the fact that you were mine to begin with.”
L doesn’t say a word, but he leans close enough that their foreheads touch. I’m yours, you’re mine comes with the inconvenience of submission, and Light knows this.
He knows this, but he adds, barely above a whisper, “It would all be meaningless without you.”
The words hang in the air, tendrils that warp L’s jealousy into submission; Light’s superiority subdued by his own vulnerability. It’s what L loves best.
Honesty.
An admission he can sink his teeth into and treasure, eyes glittering, huffing as he looks away like he isn’t charmed by Light’s pretty words. Just as Light links their hands together, the door handle clacks, air whooshing as it’s pushed open. Light freezes at the two familiar, annoying faces. A scraggly looking court reporter and Mikami Teru.
“Mikami?” He says aloud, can’t hide his surprise as he puts distance between himself and L, but the image they create is already, in his mind, a scandalous thing. Light still suspects Mikami had caught them kissing in the conference room weeks ago.
“I thought you went home with Matsuda and the others.”
“Light,” Mikami bows, a pillar of grace next to his bug eyed companion. “Just stopping by with Beyond.”
He says this in a casual cadence, but there’s nothing casual about the way Beyond is gripping Mikami’s jacket sleeve, not unlike the way L will do with Light.n It’s rude to assume, but the way Beyond clings to Mikami is so lovesick it’s practically a confession. Maybe L senses Light’s confusion, waving his hand in the air like he can dispel the overthinking.
“Yes, yes, we’ve entangled our proteges in some facsimile of Romeo and Juliet. Hello, Birthday.”
“You look terrible,” Beyond shoots back, and for once, Light appreciates the honesty. The nurses and doctor spoke of luck, but L does look awful.
“More than usual?” L grins, but it’s weak.
“Bruised occipital bone and stitches," Light cuts in, just to remind himself that’s all it is. L is just a wilted little flower in the wrong conditions. “He’s meant to be here tonight, but we’re expecting a release tomorrow.”
“You should see the other guy,“ Beyond says as his eyes slide to Light. “You almost killed him.”
“And he would have killed L.” Light says cooly, the room falling silent. He did what had to be done. Let the accusations come.
Let anyone tell him he did the wrong thing.
Visitors trickle in: Aiber, Wedy, Naomi, Mello, Near.
Through all the well wishes, Light realizes he can’t muster a shred of guilt if Asahi dies. Not even a flicker.
It scares him to admit seeing him on the precipice of death felt righteous.
“I wonder if they’ll consider the blood on your shoes as evidence,” Near says aloud, the infuriating imp commenting on Light’s shirt with as much snark as L did. He hasn’t spared a glance at L this whole time, eyes on Light like he expects another violent display.
It’s clear he doesn’t trust Light’s claim of self defense, something Light was adamant about the moment he was taken away for the shortest questioning he thinks he’s ever heard of. A 20 minute casual conversation in the hospital hallway where Light confessed the whole matter was traumatizing (lie), but L needed him (truth). If the investigators’ bias weren’t obvious enough, one mutters, “A damn shame that hospital has to waste a bed on him.”
Light doesn’t sleep. He runs on adrenaline, uncertainty tangled with exhilaration as he wonders if he’s gotten away with almost killing another human being. The thrill of evidence clinging to him lingers, praise for his valiant efforts blurring the edges of anxiety, worry. Is something wrong with him? He’s never been one to enjoy violence. Why does it feel so unfair he couldn’t push Asahi a little further, had to let go when he was supposed to because he was afraid to leave L unattended?
He helps L scrawl his name on the discharge papers the next afternoon. No one stops them; their escape is almost too easy. Victory tastes sweet, only dampened by inevitable exhaustion. As promised, Watari brings a car and all of L’s favorite belongings in a suitcase. L leans on Light when they go up the elevator to his penthouse. There’s furniture tastefully placed, endless coordination of neutral tones of black, white, and grey leading into a hallway.
L knows this place well enough that he sleepily trudges to the bed, plopping down on the usual left side like he’s always done before. Light closes the curtains with a click of a button, the city's view dimming as the sunset begins.
Light takes in the hush of the room, lets L drift, and finally steps into the warm spray of the shower.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
There’s a dampness on his pillow, hair still wet from when his body decided he needed sleep over a blowdryer.
His alarm is blaring, tired through the realization that he’s missed the three before it: his 4:50 am alarm, the 5:00 am alarm he sets for the beginning of his morning meditation, and the 6:30 alarm he sets for the end of his fitness routine.
It’s 7:00 am. He’s due to be in the office by 9:00 am. Traffic will not be kind to him if he waits.
The groan he gives and the shuffling of the bed wakes L, a hand snatching his wrist with a tight grip.
“L. I have work.”
“I don’t feel well,” L says, looking up with bleary eyes. At least they’d given him the dignity of a self adhesive patch that hides easily under his bangs. Light would have felt worse leaving him here alone if his eye were still covered.
“I have work,” Light says again, twisting his wrist away when another hand stubbornly grips the edge of his sleeve. “L, Don’t do this.”
“I need you, and you’re abandoning me,” L croaks, voice thin, fumbling as all his feline grace has been lost to the haze of morphine.
“I can’t just not go,” Light soothes, fixing L’s bangs, cupping his cheek and smoothing his thumb over the bruises on L’s browbone like an apology. “If you sleep now, you’ll be awake by the time I’m back.”
“No.”
“Here,” Light says as he rummages through the bedside drawer. It’s his, but inside is nothing but L’s comforts; fidget toys, extra candy bars, a bottle of melatonin gummies because L hates swallowing pills. They’re strawberry flavored, 5 mg each, packed with 70 mg of sugar, because anything less is an insult and destined for the trash.
“Take one.”
“No.”
“L,” Light’s tone gets firm, yanking himself out of L’s grip. “I can’t. I have work. I was planning to come back early anyway. You’ll be fine.”
L huffs, folding in on himself in hurt defiance, turning his back to Light.
Light lets the resentment linger, a shadow that clings to his shoulders as he dresses. He feels it trailing after him, silent and heavy, imagines it following him all the way to the door until its last tendrils dissipate when he takes the elevator down to the lobby.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
A silence falls over the office when Light enters, briefcase in hand.
“Police are in conference room 2A,” Matsuda doesn’t even take a breath between words as he meets Light at the door. “They kept asking questions and saying they needed an official statement, since Asahi’s lawyer wanted to press charges-"
Light lifts a hand, smile gentle and rehearsed, the kind that could charm any jury. He already knows the script he must follow, the questions they will ask, every interaction merely a game of dance as he submits to their process. He is the darling Light Yagami, a golden boy, the one who never does anything wrong. He lets the sting of tears prick his eyes, lets sorrow settle on his shoulders as he talks through it: Asahi lunging, L’s head colliding with the bench in a sound that still echoes in his bones, and Light, the hero, hurling himself into the chaos.
“I defended myself. We followed the court of law as we should have, and Asahi took advantage of that. L would be dead if I hadn’t intervened. The whole courtroom can attest to that.”
The reporters outside are all lambs, so easily herded. Light lets his voice quiver, just enough to paint himself as the tragic hero forced to choose between life and death. One reporter mentions a guilty verdict for Asahi, and Light pretends he can’t hear it over the flashbacks of horrors (true, L’s blood is still on his shoes) of having to hurt another human being (lie, Asahi is less than a shadow, less than a germ.)
Judge Takada must have delivered that guilty verdict with grace, but Light knows her well enough from their college days. She’d have been pleased. Light knows this as surely as he knows the taste of his own name.
He entertains the reporters, and wonders if L is watching before he excuses himself. It’s just after lunch, a respectable time to leave during the middle of a busy day. The Yagami firm was given strict instructions and the expectation that things would go on as usual.
He keeps L’s presence tucked away, a secret pressed between his ribs. The radio stays silent, his mind replaying every moment, every word. He’d danced through the day, flawless, every task delegated in the office in such a way even Matsuda could follow.
Light slips into his building, shedding the weight of every conversation at the door. He aches for L, the one person he can take the mask off for and never worry about did i smile did i seem nice were they fooled did it all look normal do they know i wanted him to die?
It’s always been L who could simmer the flames of Light’s bad mood. If Light is lucky, he won't bring up their difficult separation this morning.
why is L so upset what does he think of me what is he doing now what is he feeling how do i get closer, L, L, L, L, L.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
Reading a room when no one’s left to tell the story is a lawyer’s job and, as Light’s been told several times today, he does it well. He likes to think he does, too.
On the fridge handle is the smudged imprint of fingers. A kitchen cabinet is half open, cutlery drawer ajar in a way that Light would never allow.
Despite the small signs of life, everything is quiet.
The bedroom is dark, curtains drawn over the windows so only the hallway light spills into the room. There's a lump in the middle of the bed, a figure wrapped in endless blankets so all that emerges from the top of the cocoon is a patch of black hair.
“L?”
The lump doesn’t move.
“L. L, I’m home.”
Covers shift, but nothing more. No welcome home, no took you long enough. No grumble or whine.
Light’s voice wavers as he peels back the blankets, hands trembling like he’s unwrapping a relic, something breakable and holy and his.
“L,” he’s saying, voice higher than he would have liked. “L, can you breathe? Did you even eat?”
In the center of the blankets is a pale, sweat stricken face that is nothing like the angel that haunts Light’s every breath. L cracks an eye open, unfocused, and Light brings him into his arms, forces him upright as he feels the faint pulse of L’s heart under his chest. L smells sickly sweet, so limp that Light can’t help but keep him against his chest, arms tight over L’s side and shoulder like that will snap L out of this. He frantically peels the bandage off, afraid at how angry and red the stitches look.
“I don’t feel well,” L rasps, nuzzling into Light’s neck with a sigh like that’s all he’s been waiting for. “You left me.”
“Did you take your pill?” Light tries his best to steer the conversation away from L’s childish accusations. Never mind the seed of guilt planting itself into his heart for leaving the one thing that gives him meaning so helpless and defenseless at home.
“No.”
“What did you drink?”
“…Nothing.”
Light remembers the fingerprints in his kitchen. This is L’s fault. If he’d used that strength to drink something, he wouldn’t be in such a state. Light can’t be responsible for L’s lack of survival instincts–
Is what he tells himself, despite the nausea at seeing L this pitiful. Anything could’ve happened to him, like a fall or a trip, or maybe he’d choke on something, and Light’s whole world would be gone.
“No wonder you feel awful. The nurse said you need fluids, and these,” Light chides, motioning towards the stitches, “Need to stay dry.”
L gives a long, exaggerated sigh, mouth closed, the sound evolving into an exasperated groan that rattles on and on. Light immediately puts a finger to L’s lips with a quiet hush as he tries to check L’s temperature.
“Don’t give me that. You’ve been home all day.”
L grumbles again, eyes darting anywhere but Light’s, the picture of a child caught mid tantrum and determined to see it through.
“There wasn’t any food to eat.”
“No food?” Light questions with a scorned look. “I just did groceries. I have all the major food groups in my kitchen. What do you mean there wasn’t any food?”
Anger bubbles under Light’s skin. How could L not see the devotion in every detail? The fridge packed to bursting, pillows fluffed within an inch of their lives, blankets arranged with the precision of a man on the edge. All of it for him.
“I was in the mood for something light,” L says with a sigh reserved for the theater. “Something with a fluffy texture.”
“Something with a fluffy texture,” Light repeats, “Right. I have tofu and eggs in the fridge. They’re easy to make and you like their texture. Or do you not like them anymore?”
L finally looks at Light with a pointed blink that serves more as an example of dramatic flair than anything else.
You knew I’d get tired of them. Don’t give me attitude.
“So you don’t like them anymore?” Light can’t help but let the frustration seep into his voice, because, fuck, is L awful at communicating anything at any given moment and it doesn’t help that he feels slightly embarrassed at the the way his mind keeps replaying terrible things that could’ve happened while he was away, as if he had any choice to leave his own business to run itself.
He can’t let his father down, but he can’t leave L like this either.
L, seemingly unaware of the turmoil he’s caused, gives a weak sigh and promptly flops back onto the pillows, always a little opossum when it comes to confrontation.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
“Move that to Wednesday. I have my work laptop. Tell the client they’ll be sent a link to the virtual room tonight."
Light balances the phone between his ear and shoulder, fingers flying over the keys, eyes fixed and unbothered. L is tucked into bed next to him, still warm from the shower, hair soft from Light’s careful hands and the heat of a luxurious hairdryer. His cheeks and lips are starting to show some color, bullied into drinking apple juice. The stitches are still neatly tucked in place, dry and clean under Light’s care.
His palm presses gently at the nape of L’s neck, just enough pressure to satisfy the growing desire for closeness. Somewhere, Light’s phone glows with a delivery alert; groceries are nearly here, energy jelly and sweet bread, just as L asked for.
Light snaps his work phone shut, a sharp sound that slices through the room and draws L’s gaze, curious and soft.
“You’re infuriating."
“Mmmhmm?” L hums dreamily, like he’s been given a compliment. Insults are useless against his love for total submission. If Light isn’t devouring every sigh L breathes, L withers, starved for attention, desperate for the sun of Light’s obsession.
“I told the office I’d be working from home for the next two weeks. Are you happy?”
A wickedly gleeful spark ignites in those dark eyes. L lives for the spotlight, for being worshipped in the one way that makes Light miserable. Only Light’s inconvenience ever charms him, as if succumbing to the burden of his existence is the sweetest gift Light can offer.
It's the way L has been since they first met, and Light finds it easy to give in when L loses his ego, relaxing and trusting, unknowingly feeding into Light’s fantasy that L is safe only with him.
“Two weeks?” L asks dreamily, rubbing his cheek against Light’s shoulder, coy when he has his prey in a snare. “That long?”
“You wanted me here. Don’t tell me you’ll get sick of me now.”
L leans close, studying Light’s expression like he expects a reaction. “Two weeks is a long time for you. Won’t you get tired of me instead?”
“Don’t even.” Light snaps back because he hates the answer he’d give; the real answer, not the edited nonsense that would fit his aloof persona.
“Would you, though?"
“No,” Light says simply because there's no casual way to drop into conversation: you’re everything i’ve wanted and needed and i need to live in your head and your heart and your very cells until i don’t know where you end and i begin; your thoughts intertwining with mine and i can keep you here forever so there's no chance of anyone ever trying to give you what i can give you.
Maybe L understands all the same, because he’s curling himself against Light’s chest and whispers like it’s a secret, “Then how can you expect me to tire of you?”
“You need to take your medication, by the way. I don't want the stitches getting infected.” Light says this instead of spilling something reckless and raw. It’s safer to hide behind orders and routines than to let the truth of his hunger for L slip out and ruin everything.
“Nooooo,” L groans, refusing to lift his head from the comfortable spot he’s made under Light’s chin. “They didn’t even have the decency to offer me a liquid alternative.”
”Take the pills. They’re supposed to help. Please.” Light only adds the please because he’s tired and wants L to stop arguing and go back to being a helpless pile of blankets in his arms.
L tilts his head up toward Light, pressing his cold nose gently against Light’s chin and humming, a mischievous little sound that means a proposal is on the horizon.
Light gives him a scornful look, waiting, watching.
"I’ve been craving croissants from that bakery down the road near my place." He starts as if Light hasn’t been there before. It’s a place where L easily splurges, spending thousands on artisan pastries that offer gluten free and vegan options. The perfect morsel for L’s delicate stomach.
The one caveat: they aren’t on any food delivery app. Light has to take the trip himself.
“Perhaps a croissant or two could persuade me.”
“Only croissants?” Light deadpans, fully aware his resolve is being tested. He never means to fall for L’s tricks, but resistance is a dying art these days.
“Well, if you insist on more-”
Light huffs, grabbing the pill bottle in an attempt to move L away. L only sprawls further, draping his legs across Light’s lap like his rightful throne.
“I don’t know why you’re so whiny about two pills. Two.”
“I have a right to whine about it,” L looks up through his eyelashes, eyes big and wet. “I’m the one who got hurt.”
I’m the one who got hurt, says the most shameless actor Light’s ever met. L is a fox dressed as prey, all soft eyes and sly intentions, sweet only when it suits him. It’s one thing to overcome mind games in a courtroom, but their bedroom becomes a war zone when L insists he get his way.
“I’d be happy to pick up an order of whatever you want. All you need to do is take the pills.”
L won’t look at him, chin high, prideful, as if he expected Light to fold. The bruises and stitches do nothing against Light’s resolve.
“What a shame,” Light feigns defeat in his voice. “I could’ve sworn they put out their seasonal crème brûlée. The strawberry and orange ones looked nice. I even thought about getting it for myself.”
L’s guard slips, thumb pressed to his mouth. Silence settles, his gaze heavy and searching, searching for any loophole, any hint of mercy that might let him dodge the pills and still claim a sugary treat for the trouble.
Light refuses to give in to him. L edges closer,, folded up in his arms to try and look small and meek, but Light’s resolve remains firm. Perhaps Light’s determination is strong enough, or perhaps L is simply tired. Either way, L huffs and slowly extends his hand, palm up. Light spares him a glance, brow raised.
L’s fingers wiggle, all petulance with his pout and hunched shoulders. Fine, he seems to say, staring Light down, daring anything to be said back. But the truce isn’t worth ruining; not when all Light’s been waiting for today is to have L in his arms and feel his pulse and drink in his scent like all of it is a treat he’s earned.
L’s heart is in his body only because Light can’t find a way to pry his fingers between L’s sternum and gather up its fleshy weight to kiss as much as he wants. L’s body is selfish, keeping his blood inside such small veins when it should be Light’s to see. His ribs and lungs hide behind pale skin, coquettish. No matter how many nights Light lays his palm over them, flesh and cartilage always stand in the way of what should be his.
Light tips the bottle, one pill landing in his palm, joined by another before he offers them to L. L’s flat stare is all disapproval, and Light aches to kiss the sulk away. It’s always a guessing game of what’s upset L this time.
“No,” L says finally with a scowl. “I want another one. An untouched one.”
“Now is when you make such a big deal about something that I’ve touched in your mouth, huh? That’s never stopped you before.”
L blinks, but doesn’t say a word as he pops the pill into his mouth, chin up as he takes a swig of water, and prepares to swallow with a grimace.
“No, no, no,” Light says, reaching over to gently bow L’s head down. “Remember what the nurse said. Head down to make swallowing easier.”
A soft nudge to L’s head, and he swallows with a showy gulp, milking the moment for all it’s worth. All the dramatics deserve a scathing remark, but Light holds his tongue when L clings to him after with a pitiful, “Everything hurts.”
He finds a comfortable spot against Light, shoulders tucked in, legs to his chest in the usual way he sits, so it’s easy for Light to gather him in his arms again. L is taller, but somehow makes himself small enough that Light can sit in bed and watch TV while L listens. The air is set just as L likes. His favorite blanket smells of vanilla softener, suede against his cheek: the right mix to get him relaxed enough to start rubbing his feet together like a cricket.
L tugs at Light’s sleeve, forces his arm across his waist in a way he’d never usually ask for.
The clinginess is a secret thrill for Light, endorphins blooming as L melts against him. It’s easy for Light to stroke his cheek and kiss the top of his head and mindlessly let his hand wander up and down L’s arm without complaint. The same mercurial temperament that scares everyone else off goes quiet under Light’s touch.
L soaks up Light’s warmth, greedy for it, letting himself be pulled and petted, hair mussed and smoothed just because Light can. Light will kiss his shoulder, cheek, and knuckles without a retort about Light, did you know that the human mouth can host about 700 different species of bacteria?
There’s no one else he wants to hold like this, no other body he wants in his bed, no sharp tongue and quick wit that can compare to L.
For the next two weeks, it’s just them, wrapped in sheets, sharing a kind of quiet domesticity Light never thought he’d want but now aches for. Only he gets to see L like this, soft, stretched out, limbs heavy as the medicine settles in.
“What do you want from the bakery?” Light questions softly, L’s blinks getting longer, thumb to his mouth as he tries to wiggle his way further into Light’s space. All that fight in him from earlier shifts into something docile; oh, this is familiar, this is safe because it’s Light.
“I want the whole display case,” L whispers. “One of everything.
And L is dedicated to being a professional nuisance, but Light never goes back on his word.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
The portions are so small that one of everything fits neatly into two large paper bags that Light carries up to his apartment with poised grace.
L curls up on the couch, head pillowed by Light’s lap as he listens all day long to the cruelty of man. Everyone wants Light to take their case after the news coverage. Asahi’s guilty verdict was not a product of luck, but the true skill of a lawyer unearthing the evil within, as Takada had broadcasted.
L is only soothed when Light sacrifices a hand, letting him trace veins like a bored fortune teller while he’s bribed with jelly snacks and protein bread slathered in butter. He lounges like a spoiled prince, watching his knight work.
Maybe that’s why Watari never says a word when L stays over. L gets restless when left alone too long, complaining when Light pulls away to make lunch.
For L, a chocolate croissant and an orange creme brulee with a cup of black tea (14 sugar cubes). Light says nothing over his eggs and avocado toast, reaching out to pet black hair with nonchalance even when his body thrums at L’s admittance of, “Only you would do this.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dessert and dine me after you got away with almost killing our defendant. This is doing something to your ego, I’m sure of it.”
Light’s smile cracks through, blinding and real, laughter spilling out because L always sees straight through him. No matter how many layers Light wraps around himself, L peels them off with a look, coaxing out such raw emotion. It’s an unspoken dare: show me everything, i want you, not the mask.
For once, Light lets the truth tumble out, sharp and unguarded.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have used such force, but I saw what he’d done, and I couldn’t control myself. It felt good to see him suffer under my hands. I didn’t have to wait for my turn to talk or watch the jury decide his fate. I wanted him to feel triple the pain he’d given you right then ad there.”
“A trophy husband wouldn’t be a trophy husband if he weren’t alive to be paraded around, I suppose,” L says over a mouthful of croissant, Light gently wiping away a crumb near L’s lip.
“You could be a little more thankful, you know. I did save your life. And you aren’t my trophy husband.”
“That’s because I don’t think your repressed heart could admit to having a husband in public. It's why we’re partners. ”
Light’s smile returns, softer this time. L knows every version of him, even the ones Light keeps hidden from the world. Here, he lets all of himself slip through, not just the polished edges. In this space, words and touches are safe, met only with L’s quiet, unwavering affection.
"You’re talking a lot for someone who just had the most traumatic experience of their life. You tell Watari to say that to the reporters while you’re here taking a vacation?”
“I asked him to make a statement when you were away this morning, yes.”
“And you asked him to say, and I quote,” Light says, bringing up the Instagram feed for Wammy Investigators. "I don’t wish for the most traumatic experience of my life to overshadow my client’s joy."
"I don’t remember. I hit my head pretty hard." L bats his lashes. "Maybe the caramel croissant will help my memory."
“And a warm cup of afternoon tea to suppress the trauma, right?” Light says, not moving, hand on his cheek as he watches L shift so easily from hurt little fawn to greedy dessert fiend.
“14 sugars.”
“Don’t tell me what I already know.” Light shoots back. “I count them every fucking time.”
The clients on the other end of each meeting never know that Light, all business in his blazer and collared shirt, tie immaculately tucked, continues on with L's head on his lap, caramel croissant crumbs accumulating on the floor. And after, when his lawyer persona is tucked away into a box for later, he guides L to his feet for a bath.
Bubbles and soft sighs fill the bathroom, the warm water melting them into puddles. The tub barely fits two, but L refuses to sit anywhere but Light’s lap, head tucked under his chin, while Light scrubs and rinses his hair, careful to avoid the stitches.
Domesticity is a disgusting curse that has Light constantly reaching for L with soft caresses and reverent gentleness, even as he towels him dry and dresses him in a favorite long sleeve shirt and custom blue sweatpants with velvet seams, no tags.
Light’s earned monopoly when it comes to L’s comfort.
L, tucked against Light’s side, is deliciously clingy, one arm thrown around Light’s waist. He’s digging his feet in soft sheets, legs cricketing. That familiar high creeps in Light’s bones, so pleased with himself that L is safe and healing and wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Safe, just as he should be. Light’s care wraps around them, a bubble where they can hold hands and press their noses together, L whispering, “Maybe I should get hurt more often."
A strawberry croissant keeps L’s silly accusations at bay, all tucked up in bed and practically glowing as Light feeds him. Never mind the crumbs or the sticky residue on Light’s fingers. L is kneading the sheets, stomach ful when Light coaxes him to brush teeth and turn in for the night, all sleepy and trusting. The TV stays on, bringing news of Asahi’s latest condition at 11 pm. L, bleary-eyed, uses Light’s chest as his pillow and watches.
“I think he was in the right,” one reporter says. “Call him a killer or whatever you want, but Yagami Law defended themselves. It’s crazy something like that could happen in a room full of guards. Little Tokyo supports kira.”
“Kira,” L echoes, honed in on the news.
“It was so cruel,” another says as the camera cuts to a different angle. “He was full of blood. Possessed. And then he stormed off as if nothing happened. He earned that wretched nickname.”
”Kira’s the best thing that’s gonna happen to LA, mark my words,” a man says enthusiastically on screen, but the camera immediately cuts to the scowl of a pedestrian on the street.
“Nah, get that kid out of our courts. Almost killing someone in court shouldn't go unpunished.”
L drifts, half asleep, only waking when the TV startles him. Light switches it off, uninterested in the noise of other people’s opinions. No one will ever understand, and he doesn’t owe them any explanation.
All Light needs is the promise that nothing will come between him and L. If someone has to die for that, let their pain echo in the suffering of their soul long after they’re gone.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
“Yes, sir,” Light says, L’s head in his lap because even after a week of constant touches and being tangled up in each other, it’s too much to have space between them.
Maybe Light should have adopted a cat instead of collecting a partner, a lover, a nuisance: whatever title L earns in the court of Light’s mind today.
“Why don’t you have L’s team assist? Naomi and Watari were always so pleasant and efficient whenever I’d had dealings with them. They set up your internship, remember?” Soichiro is saying over the phone, clueless to the way Light’s jaw tenses at the mention of his old internship.
Humiliation grows, Light shrinking back against the couch until L tugs on his sleeve, a wordless feed me hanging in the air.
Light rummages through the graveyard of pastry boxes and nearly crams a cupcake into L’s mouth, scowling when he answers, “No, really, that’s unnecessary.”
“I worry about you, Light. Your mother is worried, too. You did a brave thing, but you must be feeling the strain of it.”
L is very neatly unfolding his cupcake, careful not to let the icing fall as he insists on catching an earful of the conversation. Light shoos him away, a solemn, “It’s a lot, but I’ll be fine. I only took off from work to avoid the reporters.”
A lie.
“And how is L? Have you spoken with him?”
“He’s great,” A genuine truth that makes Light smile. “Stuffing his face with cake, last I saw him. You know, the usual.”
“He’s odd, but he’s been tremendous help.” Soichiro agrees, and L makes the start of a grumble before Light gently pulls at the back of his hair in warning.
“Yeah, he’s a brain all right. Sorry, Dad, I really have to go. I promised L I’d bring him some medication and don’t want to catch traffic going west.”
“That’s so thoughtful of you, Light. Give him my well wishes.”
“I will. Tell Mom and Sayu I miss them.”
“We’ll see you soon,” and the line goes dead. Soichiro never lingers on goodbyes. Light is grateful, worn out from playing up his grief, pulling L into his lap just to murmur, “Everyone thinks I’m so upset about what happened.”
L blinks up at Light with an expectant look, the mere crumbs of his cupcake clinging to the wrapper. “Aren’t you?”
“Not in the way everyone thinks. How am I supposed to feel bad? It’s not like he's dead anyway..”
“Ah. Well, get better at playing your role so there’s less concern about your emotional wellbeing.”
“So happy to see you’re feeling better,” Light replies, hands under L’s sweater just to feel his full stomach and know he was responsible for it, stopping when he sees the expensive tag on the back of the neckline.
“Is that my sweater?”
“You weren’t using it. Do you want it back?” L makes a point of flicking a crumb of vanilla cupcake off his sleeve.
“You wore my handmade cashmere sweater just to make a mess of your cupcake?” Light shoots back, resolve crumbling when L gives a pitiful grumble of, “But it smelled of you. And I left all your old sweaters at my apartment.”
Fuck Light and his stupid weakness to seeing L in his clothes, like his mind can’t help but paint himself as the knight in shining armor, saving L from the cold, cruel world. Some primitive part of him refused to be subdued over centuries and modernization, so now, when L admits i just want your scent, i just want to be closer to you it’s scratching that incessant itch. Some yearning he didn't know could be possible within him.
The world could worship Light, but it’s only when L looks at him with that hungry need that something inside finally stirs. It’s a craving he can’t ever satisfy, a wild chase of let me give you everything so you’ll keep wanting me, answering L’s silent dare: i’m hard to please, but i’m yours if you can manage it.
Affection is a humiliation ritual designed by the gods to keep Light humble. He’s sure of it, swept up in a fugue when he stacks the blankets in a sacred order, pillows along the side of the bed so their body heat won’t escape in the middle of the night because even when L sleeps with a long sleeve and pants, it's not enough. He’s a mess of limbs tonight, ticked into Light’s space and doing his best to make sure there’s no space between them.
He wiggles in Light’s arms, loves when there's a little resistance so he can feel every point of contact between them as he settles in for the night. Light holds him against his chest, doesn’t complain when L gets squirmy and tangles his fingers in the front of Light’s shirt to self soothe.
L is always on the precipice of being touch starved and touch repulsed, so confusing to be around unless you’re Light Yagami. L gives a little sigh of “Light,” all pathetic, like a kitten mewling. Light kisses the top of his head, loves the shiver that runs through L when he's being given what he wants.
“Light,” he says again, sleep coating his practiced syllables so the hint of something posh peeks through. Light kisses his head again, twice this time, because when L starts saying his name like that, it only means he wants attention.
“Light,” L sighs, voice swallowed by the fabric of Light’s shirt as he’s pulled in tighter, Light’s hand mapping the ridges of his spine, tracing lazy circles near his tailbone. L shivers, scandalized that he hasn’t been granted a kiss for his troubles, and huffs out a plaintive, “Liight…”
Light atones with four kisses this time, creative with his placements, drawing a map from the top of L's head to his nose. L cranes his neck up, hands still fisted at the front of Light’s shirt, like some terrible business will take them away from the comfort of the bed. He’s desperately trying for Light’s attention, making a game of it when he keeps saying Light’s name and earns a kiss on each cheek, his nose, lids, and neck.
Back arched, drinking in Light’s quiet, “You feel warm. You okay?”
L hums, but a yes or no doesn't come. Light holds him tighter, the way L likes, like he’s begging to be kept together, a gift kept so neatly wrapped in the coziness of Light’s arms. Getting L to melt against him is so easy when he’s swayed by forehead kisses and soft words of, “You’re acting so sweet for me today. We can stay in tomorrow. I don’t have any meetings until lunch.”
Oh, how L’s mood brightens at the news that Light is all his, opening his eyes and offering a kiss to the underside of Light’s chin. Small, meager, because L hadn’t thought to give any time to physical touch. His kisses aren't perfect, and he does better with being a morsel for Light to enjoy than having to face any responsibility of taking the lead, but it all belongs to Light, tucking his face into dark hair and relishing in L’s submission. L’s truth of this makes me happy, you make me happy clearly resonating with his own giddiness.
L is all his, except when he’s not.
At 2 AM, when L jerks awake, faintly mumbling of a long forgotten orphanage, Light must learn to share these small moments with L’s panic of being caught in a half dream.
“I’m here,” Light coos against L’s cheeks, smoothing back his damp hair as he links their hands together. “I’ve always been here, waiting for you. Your mind is just taking you back to another time when I hadn't found you yet.”
“It’s not like you to pillow talk,” L rasps, voice raw, throat tight as if his body refuses to surrender. Light feels it in the stubborn knots of L’s shoulders, the way his legs clamp down, fists tight in the sheets no matter how softly Light hushes him.
Light’s fingers thread through L’s hair, twirling the ends, kissing his forehead in unhurried successions so he can coax L back into their game of chase. Nothing breaks L out of his vacant stare, Light soothing back black hair when he realizes it’s long enough to be gathered with a hair tie. He hums, palm on L’s nape, skims his nails up the top of L’s spine to the base of his skull.
“When did it get so long?”
“I've been more focused on the case than anything else. Is it unsuitable?”
“I just didn’t expect it,” Light says, feeling L’s body finally start to loosen. “It’s different.”
He wants to say it’s cute, but even now, with L distracted, he knows it’ll be turned against him. L will style his hair just so, maybe change it every day, just to make sure Light is always watching. your eyes are on me, and i’ll keep it that way.
Light’s gaze has never left L, Light’s even when L was so determined to let affection slide off him.
I like you just as you are, Light had said once as a confession when he was too young and brash to understand the world outside of the endless compliments he’d always received in college. There's no one else I'd want to spend hours talking with or even care to know what you're thinking. It's the first time I've ever felt this way.
It's just admiration, L insisted as if he could pinpoint Light’s emotions. Go off and date somebody your own age. You're just a child, Light.
A child. As if Light were a helpless, useless thing, not even on the same footing. It felt awful to tell someone how much they meant to him and to be brushed off as though the ache in his heart was merely an inconvenience.
Now, L can’t pretend anymore. He must feel it, curled in Light’s sheets, wrapped in his clothes, tucked into arms he’d never let hold him before. Light’s never lied about his feelings. Never sugar coated the obsession, never let L escape his grasp when all those years apart brought them together in Rem’s office.
Light’s earned L’s trust, and that will always be so much more powerful than whatever past haunts the corners of L’s mind.
“You like it.”
“Huh?”
“My hair,” L says, tipping his chin up so their noses touch.
“You’ll take advantage if I admit it,” Light says with a yawn.
L smiles, buries his forehead against the underside of Light’s chin, the last scraps of his nightmare fading away.
“You can keep touching it,” L says, but all Light hears is the silent plea in the way L presses against him, tugging at his shirt: keep playing with my hair.
It’s silk and shadow between his fingers, moving in lazy, unpredictable patterns, following a rhythm Light wants to learn. He tucks the blanket up around L’s shoulders, guarding him from the chill, never pausing in his gentle worship. He even dreams of it, the scent, fluffy edges against his cheek, the way it feels to press a kiss to the crown of L’s head and know, for a moment, that everything is right.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
The one thing L loves more than a good case is the slow haze of a lazy day, belly full of sweets and no complaint when he's made to take his medication and gets to lounge in Light’s lap after. They watch the sunrise bleed its last golden glow into the purple sky, and Light thinks, for once, if only every day could be like this.
Their time together has been punctuated by a loose schedule of shared chores and brief touches, a domestic and cozy rhythm where laundry is folded, dishes gleam like trophies, and the bed waits, pristine and inviting, for them to tumble into.
Perhaps L deserves another treat.
“Want some cake?” Light offers, smoothing back L’s hair, curling the ends of it as it falls down the back of L’s neck in serpentine waves.
“There’s no more cake left. You ate the last one. My pistachio cake.”
“You don't even like pistachio,” Light shoots back with a hint of a bite. L likes to accuse just for the thrill of it, but Light hates when the facts are skewed.
“Then why did you get it, Light?”
“Because you asked for one of everything and I gave you one of everything. Are you kidding me? Do you have to do this just to annoy me?”
L, a drowsy heap of limbs and mischief, burrows closer and plants a kiss at the corner of Light’s mouth, as if bestowing a sweet apology.
“I suppose it was unkind of me not to thank you for doing that. I did appreciate it.”
“Appreciate it a little louder,” Light kisses back with a simple press of lips that turns into a breath they share. Light tastes L’s submissiveness on his tongue in a way that’s sweeter than any pastry.
Time stops, L’s hands slowly making their way behind Light’s neck, pleased little sighs exhaled with every suckle. It's L’s favorite thing to do. Just pressing their bodies against each other, mouths moving, Light's hand finding its way to L’s hip to bring him closer. L can kiss for hours and be unaffected, but Light–
He hasn't touched L intimately since the beginning of the case. Hasn't seen him flush, hasn’t heard L make his sweet moans or indulged in the carnal pleasure of L pleading against his mouth to go faster, Light, there, harder, don’t stop don't stop don't stop, Light–
“Fuck,” Light hisses as he feels himself harden, hates the way he reacts to L every time, like he’s still in college, figuring out his own body. L doesn’t hide his amusement, stops to kiss Light’s neck with a roll of his hips and a noise that could have been a purr.
“L, no. We shouldn't."
“Shouldn't? Or don’t want to?”
“You heal slowly,” Light hisses, “Connective tissue disorder, remember?”
“Mm, it's not like you to make excuses,” L settles his head into Light’s shoulder with a resigned sigh. “I don't blame you, though. I outpace you every time. It must be the age. And I thought stamina only came with experience.”
Oh, the audacity L has to let his fawnish veil lift to reveal the minx underneath it all. Light flips L over and kisses him, grinding their hips together, hissing between grunts, “Don’t you dare fucking goad me.”
“Oh? But what if that’s what I want? ” L pouts, because he knows how tonight will end. “Or is kira such a brute that you don’t think we can do it without risking my injuries? I should’ve accepted someone more experienced to bed me. Remember when you thought I turned you down for Aiber?”
Light's eyes go dark, blood running cold.
Aiber.
His perfect hair, perfect teeth, chest swelling underneath every kind of shirt like some stupid billboard of classic American narcissism.
Light has always been a little jealous of Aiber.
Just a little (a lot, actually).
“Shut up.”
“Oh, are you still jealous of him?” L tilts his head slightly, a bloodhound to Light’s weaknesses. “Or are you still mad I turned you down when you were interning at my company?”
“Shut up now.”
“I remember it fondly, no matter how embarrassed you were about it.” L’s smile is playful, coy, as he rubs at Light’s biceps. “I turned you down when you were barely 20. You thought you could give me the world just because your mind was brilliant. But you were so naive and so young.
Light fumes. Smoke would be coming out of his ears, heart pumping blood at a furious pace.
“I’ll never forget how you quit the next day. Blocked me on everything, but you couldn’t erase me. Couldn't forget about me, even if you tried, right? Not when we were forced to keep seeing each other in the courtroom. Not when Rem called us both about this case.”
“You let me kiss you right after we met with her,” Light hisses, because he doesn’t want to feel vulnerable. Doesn’t want to let it show how much it hurts to have pretty L with his brilliant ideas and tousled hair slip from his fingers. His ego was bruised, yes, but more than that was the hurt in his heart, a piece of something he never knew was missing slipping from his grasp faster than he could build a persona to ensnare it with.
It was L who saw Light’s passion for justice and treated it as strength.
And L can be smart, funny, and kind, and maybe those traits are more admirable in others, but Light admired them most in L.
“Because the you at 19 is different from what I see now at 25.” L grins again. “You filled out well.”
“Pervert,” Light hisses. “You wanted me. Don’t deny it.”
“I praised you, and you thought it was love. There was nothing but admiration behind my words, Light,” L says. “I don’t know why you still think I turned you down for someone else when the truth was always that I didn't want to get in the way of you finding yourself. There was nothing good that was going to come of us starting a relationship then.”
“You called me a child,” Light accuses, leaning forward with a kiss so fierce that L makes a pained little gasp. Light soothes his tongue over his swelling lips, and L sighs.
“You are childish, even now. You just like the thrill of someone going up against you. I don't even know with certainty that what you have for me can be called love.”
“I care about you the only way I know how,” Light hisses, because he hates talking about this. Damn L and his cunning eyes , loves seeing them lid when Light’s hands slink under his shirt, rubbing and pinching at his nipples with a breathless moan. “Shouldn’t that be enough?”
“You’re dangerous,” L laughs, arching up because he loves this type of foreplay. “You're just going to discard me.”
“Not if you discard me first.”
“Ahh, and you think I'll go crawling to Aiber? Wedy? Naomi?” L leans up and grabs Light’s hair, forcing him down for a kiss. “I don't see people as transactions. Not like you do sometimes.”
“Isn’t almost killing man enough to show you I mean what I say?”
L smiles against Light's lips, eyes falling shut when Light ruts against him.
“No. It means maybe that therapist wouldn't be such a bad idea.”
The thing about L is that Light knows he’s always speaking in rhyme based on truths, but Light doesn’t want to talk about therapists and mind games and diagnoses he hates.
Light kisses L to shut him up. He doesn't care if L sees into his weakness. He wants L because L is him, and he is L. They're the same person, the same mind.
L is his spark. The one thing that fuels him, makes him want to to prove L’s praise meant something; that tenderness he feels in his heart as be dries L’s hair and gives him soft kisses is the same want he feels when he leaves marks on L’s skin. Wants to make L feel his devotion through blood and teeth and sweat.
He starts to lift L’s shirt before a little whine cuts him off.
“I need it on. Your apartment is too cold.”
Light laughs, keeps L wrapped in a blanket, legs splayed open when he takes him into his mouth. Light doesn't enjoy doing this, but he likes feeling how loose L gets, suckling against his cockhead, feeling the weight of his slight cock on his tongue with practiced ease. He tastes good, clean, warm, and comforting.
Maybe he thinks that because L is doused in his shower products and his bedsheets, a helpless little thing as Light takes and takes and takes, tongue laving against his tight little hole like a promise, worshiping his pink cock when it begs and twitches for more, so greedy and so much like L. starved for attention, but so helpless when it’s finally being given.
Toes curl in the sheets, L giving hiccups of Light’s name the more he takes him into his mouth. That’s what Light wants. Wants L trembling under him, weak, head filled with nothing but Light’s perfect mouth, perfect hands, perfect cock opening him up and making him cross eyed and honest.
Wants L to live in his perfect world, where Light rules and no awful thing can touch L or take him away. It would be just them, as it was always meant to be. Light’s hands branding L’s skin, a promise and a plea and curse all wrapped up in one; the so called copy of love that L is sometimes skeptical of.
But what is any emotion to Light Yagami if it’s not strong enough to get lost in, unable to resist making it impossible for L to hold back his whimpers and moans.
L throws his head back with a helpless noise, cums all over Light’s hand, and shivers when Light lets the cum slick his slow petting over his length. Light leaves a kiss on L’s stomach when L starts to shake with over stimulation, uses a spare shirt to wipe away the mess as he keeps nipping and kissing up L’s chest and stomach.
“Felt nice,” L says, shaky, still out of breath, hair tousled like he’d grabbed it to anchor himself, and that somehow makes the innocent image of being wrapped in the duvet so much more lewd. Light, hard, wanting, aching, lifts L effortlessly into his arms, duvet and all.
Tonight should be good. Tonight was supposed to be theirs to enjoy. Not even Asahi can ruin Light’s victory lap.
The curtain blinds start to open at the touch of a button, L still clutching onto L’s shoulders with endless questions that mean nothing. In front of them is the LA skyline, a distant thing. It's late enough that everyone is tucked away, recovering from the desperate rush to get home. No one can see them this high up.
It still doesn’t stop the excited tremble in L’s voice when he asks, “Light, what are you doing?”
Light smiles, kneels so they’re both against the glass, encased in the heat of the duvet while he kisses L slowly; savors him the way he did that first night L let Light drag him into his apartment. L lets himself be turned, back to Light’s chest, cock twitching as Light simply holds him.
“The 55th floor is pretty high up. You know that,” Light says evenly, cock slotting between L’s thighs, encased in velvet heat. His hand strokes L’s hardening cock in a languid pace, the duvet hiding their indecency, L’s thighs tensing with an undeniable want. Light is sure even his entrance must be aching. ”So why are you so excited?”
“L-Light, won't someone see?” L starts, but there’s not enough fear in it to mean anything. L loves playing helpless.
And Light loves making him feel helpless.
“Mm?” Light hums, slicks himself with lube as he keeps letting his cock indulge in the tight heat between L’s thighs, forces them together with no retort because there’s a certain thrill L gets when he’s made to do something; when decisions are made for him and all of his care is decided by Light.
“No condom on for tonight. The way you like it.”
L shivers because he does like it like that. Even if L can hone in on Light’s weakness, Light is just as relentless. Light will mark and brand him from the inside out and L, like always, will simply let him.
“If you keep a straight face, maybe no one will notice. You’re good at that, right?”
“Light–”
“If it’s too much, you can tell me,” Light whispers against L’s ear, tries to sink his cockhead in, and almost cums. He’d forgotten how tight L can be, says so with a snarky little laugh as he splays a hand over L’s soft stomach.
“I forgot. You were a virgin before I fucked you. Imagine that? Teaching you at 31 how to take me until you were begging for it.”
The noise L makes borders on desperation, barely the start of a moan at the lewd words. A hand flies up to his mouth, nothing stopping him from being pressed up against the glass on the next thrust. Light starts to glide inside with an ease that comes with hundred dollar lubricant and uncouth nights of exploring how many orgasms they could wring from each other.
He looks perfect like this, eyes glazed, back arched as Light circles his hips against his ass like L is the prize he’s deserved to indulge in all along.
“I should have known you’re the type to rile people up. Getting me to kiss you senseless in an empty conference room. Did you like that? Were you hoping someone would peek in and see?”
“No,” L gets out, but his knees shake. Light feels it.
“You want everyone to know you have Los Angeles’ best lawyer fucking you every other night, right? Getting stuffed so full. Must be nice to think you have me by an invisible collar.”
“That’s not what I nor anyone thinks,” L gasps, Light starting an easy, lazy rhythm. It’s so good, L’s walls tensing and relaxing, his breath hitching, consumed by Light down to his very core.
“No, but that's what you think about, isn’t it? Too bad they don’t know you like this. You look good getting what you want.”
L bites his lip, a harsh exhale hiding his moan, when Light whispers in his ear,
“Go on. You can say it. You missed me. Missed this.”
Light punctuates his words by fucking into L with a brutal pace. “Me claiming you. Do you like it that much? Does it feel good when I reach that deep?”
“I don’t need to tell you how you’re doing. Figure it out.” L gets out, but he’s shaking, panting, back arching like he’s begging for more.
“You can say it; no one’s around.” Light adds sweetly, kissing up L’s neck. “You liked seeing me like that in the courtroom. You wanted me to kill for you.”
L’s moan is cut off, wounded. Light’s found the seam of his desire and doesn’t plan to rip it open nicely.
“You like sweet Light Yagami bathing and tucking you in, but I saw how you looked at that kira news.” Light let out a long exhale as buries himself again inside L, keeps his cock there and imagines an imprint of it on L’s belly. “You want kira to die and kill for you. You think you can keep getting what you want just as long as you keep playing the poor little victim.”
Light puts his hand around L’s throat- doesn’t cut off his air, but holds it there like a reminder.
Mine, mine, mine.
He fucks into L, presses him right up against the glass as his thrusts continue, and aims right for L’s sweet spot with a hiss of, “Say it.”
“Kira,” L says, babbles it in Japanese because he knows how hot it makes Light. “Make it hurt. Make me remember it.”
It shouldn’t be hot, but the name gives Light an excuse to be filthy with his words; another persona he can adopt and not have to worry about sullying his own image.
“You,” Light rakes his nails over L’s pale skin, so hard when L says kira in that breathy little mewl; a helpless mouse in a sunny clearing. “Of course, you'd think it’s hot if I almost killed for you. Are you fantasizing about it now? I punish him and get to fuck you on the table as a prize after? Would you want everyone to see?”
L’s cut off whimper punctuates how tight he gets, and Light’s eyes roll back at how hot it feels.
“Letting everyone see how you cry if I fuck you in the right spot. You want that? You want someone to see how nice I stretch that hole of yours?”
L falters, all caught up in Light’s voice, his touch, his cock, wanting it to mark him, begging to be Light’s.
“You-” L manages to grunt, must hate how well Light has learned about his kinks, “Keep leaking into me. Better not finish too fast.”
“No, darling, I'll keep it up. Rough, just like you like,” Light hisses, voice gruff. None of that sweet boy next door tone when he pistons his hips, fucking L mercilessly. “I’m gonna fill you up, so you’ll be dripping for days.”
L bites the duvet, head down, but Light grabs a fistful of hair like it’s the scruff of an animal and yanks.
“No, no, look on. Don't you want others to see you like this?”
“L-Light,” L whimpers, all wordless pleas and teary eyes, ready to beg. To confess and be swallowed whole by Light’s unyielding reciprocation until the world starts to shatter between whimpers and the slick sound of L being molded to Light’s length.
“Show everyone how you look when I breed you. They’ll love it. Seeing you so obedient when I have you on my cock like this.” Light licks a stripe up L’s neck and bites, ruts so deep he thinks perhaps he’ll never be able to pull out.
This is his L; his. The only other person who knows his very soul is begging for completion. Only Light is able to offer this, can make L cry and bend and fold this easily because Light wills it.
“Say it,” Light hisses, so close because he loves this. Light cannot exist without L, but L cannot exist without Light and even if he’s fallen into the sick trap of L’s fantasy, his cock is spilling precum at the thought of keeping L his. Choosing to rid a life for L’s sake, blood on his hands and L’s name on his lips.
“L-Light-!”
“Say what you really want to say.”
“Kira, yours, yours, Kira,” L warbles out, head down, a cry leaving his throat as his body tightens, locks up as he trembles, all that tension let loose. He can’t help it, hasn't learned how to make himself last when it feels this good, his body reacting before Light can say anything more.
“Fuck, mm, fuck, fuck,” L gets out in English, eyes bleary, bliss on his features as he looks back at Light like he’s being given the world. Light cums, forces L into his cock like he’s nothing more than a toy as he pumps and pumps into him, hips still moving like he can go on forever.
Fucking L against the window until everyone knows this is his detective. L doesn't need anyone other than Light. Just needs pastries and Light’s hands, and Light’s cock and Light’s mouth telling him what a good boy he is for letting go like that, did that feel good L? I can have you all day and never get tired of seeing that face you make.
Their labored breaths quiet, the hum of the air conditioner filling the silence.
“I’m full of you,” L says dreamily, forehead to the glass, hand shaking as he tries to catch his breath. Maybe, in another life where they didn't have to witness so many cadavers and lies, he would have said I love you instead.
“Yeah? You can still feel me?” Light asks, pumps his hips a little, even when his nerves are screaming with over stimulation. He grinds into L one last time before he pulls out. L is a mess of tremors under the duvet, knees cracking as Light gently lays them on their side. It feels strange lying on the floor, holding the most thing to him: laid so bare he doesn’t recognize the undertaking of adoration making everything rose tinted.
Light shuts his eyes, kisses gently on L’s neck as the city light continues to glow.
The post orgasmic haze doesn't last long before L groans.
“I need to shower again."
Light doesn't complain when he’s made to put the duvet to wash, the world melting into syrupy warmth, and something sweet humming in his veins. He forgets the universe, forgets himself, except for the way L blinks at him, soft, almost reverent. Light asks if it hurts when he carefully dabs at the stitches and layers of ointment.
L’s ear rests over Light’s heart, and Light wonders if the rhythm will give him away. Some morse code will thrum in his veins and L will be clever enough to decipher a type of terrible confession of love that he doesn’t dare say aloud.
Light doesn’t ever say things like that, not because he doesn't feel the emotion, but because this thing he's given himself into will surely swallow him whole. The horror isn’t in loving L; it’s in knowing L could, with a single bored glance, decide Light is just another face in the crowd, just another person on the street. And who is Light Yagami if he is not needed, yearned for, admired by L?
It's scary, yes, but then L whispers, “I can hear you thinking.”
“...”
“Yes, Light, you did very well. I’m so pleased and so tied after being worked over by your big co–”
“Go to sleep.” Light says immediately, fishes for the bottle of melatonin gummies and shoves it towards L without another word.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
When the sun strikes L just right, it’s easy to trace the vivid green of his veins. Sharp lines climb his bicep and shoulder, kissable spots that L grumbles about, folding things neatly into his suitcase.
There's a divot of stitches on his brow bone, but the bruising has all but disappeared. If L really needed to, some nice makeup would hide the last of the green and blue in his skin. Wedy offered to help him pick out a concealer, but Light dragged him into his arms that morning without another word: a silent plea for L to stay within their safe bubble.
“Kissing my shoulder won’t help me pack,” L complains, as if he’s ever going to reclaim all the debris he’s scattered through Light’s apartment. Toothbrushes multiplying in the bathroom, shirts draped over chairs, underwear spinning in the wash, each one a stubborn reminder of his presence.
Light doesn't think he's ready to let go of that yet.
“I don't see why you have an apartment. You can stay here. Your things are everywhere, anyway.”
L blinks, turns to wrap his arms around Light’s waist with a gleam in his eye. “Does Light miss me so much? Does it get lonely up here in your castle?”
The silence is thick with everything Light refuses to say. He’ll never confess to weakness, but he’s not foolish enough to let L slip through his fingers again, not when he’s already tasted what it’s like to lose him.
“You know I like efficiency. Wouldn't it make more sense if you stayed here?”
“We’d need separate rooms. You chose this place with just you in mind. There’s no space for me here,” L says, with a somber look down, but what he’s said is nothing more than a ruse to make Light feel something.
Anything.
Yes, Light Yagami is a perfect imitation of the man he wants to be, but that doesn't mean the ache within him is any less real. He longs to keep L in his arms and hold him there until their hearts synchronize, lungs entangled to draw and release the same breath until their bodies wither.
“You mean there’s no room for our egos?” Light quips, tone razor sharp. “I’ll just get a condo downtown, high up so we can indulge. Three rooms, since I know you like space for all your shiny new tech.”
“Indulge,” L repeats, seemingly unaffected by Light bowing to his request. “You mean you want to play gods above the cityscape.”
“Is it a fucking crime to tell you that I’m committed? Is that what you want to hear? That I’d sell this place all because you fucking hate any decor that’s considered post modern?”
"You wouldn't sell it," L says, eyes averted, sulking because he craves the satisfaction of inconveniencing Light, yet can't permit himself to wish for it.
Light doesn’t fancy himself a romantic, but he’s never met a challenge he didn’t want to conquer, especially if it means winning L.
“I can if you give me three weeks. You wouldn't come to showings with me?”
“It would be suspicious if we were seen together.”
Light smiles. “You wouldn't even try?”
L turns, buries his face in Light’s chest, silent and stubborn. Light tips his chin up, stealing a kiss that tastes like surrender and something dangerously close to hope.
“I have you. I’m not letting you go.”
“So it seems,” L says, but he doesn't seem too upset about it.
⊰═════════════════════════════⊱
It takes four weeks, because Light, so sure his influence could bend the world, forgot America has a pesky thing he should avoid called an HOA. A relic of barbaric times, he thinks, with some showings attached to a rulebook thicker than his wallet.
The condominium he eventually settles on has four rooms and two master suites, enough space for their different minds to sit in peace.
True to Light's word, it is high up. They can see the mountains and the LA cityscape below, but none of that matters when Light has L’s sleepy eyes on him and sweet face to hold between his palms, breathing the words “mine” onto L’s skin like there will be a brand for others to see too.
He can pretend, though, and so can L.
L with his pretty flush and uneven breaths, fists gripped in the sheets as he bites into the pillow case when Light has him pinned down like this; loves the pressure of bodyweight on him while Light hisses pretty filth into his ears. Sweet promises of you’re mine, see, look what i can give you, aren’t i good enough for you making each thrust a deadly pinpoint of pleasure against L’s usual stamina.
And this high up, Light has all the free rein to pound into him enough that the bed shakes, sheets askew and littered with L’s drool.
“You look pretty like this,” Light moans against the back of L’s neck, wanting to leave a mark so bad until L sinks his hands into Light’s hair and tugs. A warning, because even though they hide things well, a bruise that fits the circumference of Light’s mouth is a hard thing to explain.
“Not above the collar,” L gasps, breathless when Light starts pinching his nipples, rubbing mercilessly the deeper he fucks into L; his treat, his little toy, his savior. All his to enjoy, relief pouring through his veins when L cums with a helpless cry of, “Light-”
Just a helpless little thing in Light’s hold as he lets go too, fills L up until he can't keep his cock nestled in that unbearable heat any longer and brings L close to catch the last of his crocodile tears after sex. Maybe he can go another round, but he wants all the time in the world to soak up L’s breaths, feel his racing heart slow under Light’s affections.
“Tomorrow we should pack.”
“Later, yeah,” Light says, stroking L’s hair. “Don’t need to bring much. The trial will be over before it’s begun. That death penalty is all for Asahi.”
“And don't make it about you.”
“Why would I?” Light says, but he’s already picturing it. Their eyes lock across the courtroom, Asahi’s hope flickering out like a candle in a storm. Light would to drink in that despair, would watch the last spark in Asahi’s eyes snuffed out so he could savor his own triumph.
Only if he's lucky, of course
“Maybe after this is over, we can take a vacation. Just a week.”
“A vacation?” L says, idly tracing Light’s collarbones.
“Just stay in bed. Round up another order from that bakery near your old apartment.”
“So this is what they call pillow talk,” L purrs, pliant when Light brings him into his arms with a huff. Their legs tangle, body heat shared under the covers so L lets out a pleased sigh.
It’s the kind of sound Light would keep if he could, tuck it away in a glass vial, and wear it close, let it echo through him whenever the world grows too loud. He can’t, but he can have this quiet moment where nothing exists but the warmth pressed between them, the rest of the world dissolving into nothing.
Just Light and L.
L and Light.