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“Not right now, Light,” L said. There wasn’t an immediate response. He put the phone on speaker and placed it next to the keyboard. “I’m busy. It’s Saturday.”
Light was tapping his foot loudly enough that L heard it through the phone. “Yes. It’s Saturday morning. You told me you needed me here for the investigation.”
Light was obviously playing dumb. L shifted his attention back to his monitor. He did like this setter, whomever it was. 9-across. Bond’s boss- M. Attacks computerized officer. Attacks; anagram? Synonym. Strikes. Targets.
“L,” Light said, like it was an ugly letter, single syllable stretched through gritted teeth. The familiar tone he took on when L ignored him. “L.”
L continued to ignore him. Likely targets. Computerized officer, begins M, malware blocker was two, attacks perhaps double definition? Targets, scrambled, something. ‘Magistrate’. M starting, anagram targets AI. Clever enough. “Magistrate.”
“What?” Light had stopped saying his name repeatedly and instead turned to confused angry silence.
“Magistrate.”
“What does m—“ Light cut himself off. “You told me to come today. What could you even be busy with?”
Skip 10-across. 11-across was ‘The Black Dog’. “Other cases.”
Light made his favorite amused and aborted half-laugh. They both knew L’d never find a new case like this. L skipped 12-across and thought about odds: Light would a) continue their little private joke, just to hear L say how special and interesting he was. Narcissistic bastard. Usually the route he took, but he did sound annoyed, therefore b) he’d grimace and spit and press the buzzer until L got up and let him in, which wouldn’t happen. L was alone in his flat, and Light knew this; the constant buzzing was solely to annoy him. Petty, not to mention undignified, so c) he’d make a jab about L not having any friends or hobbies—13-across, ‘Patroclus’—or things to do or a life in general. Hypocrite.
“What, having a playdate with your other friends? Awkward morning after? You should’ve told me. I’d have brought snacks,” Light said wryly. There it was. “L. Did you need me here today or not?”
“Mhm,” L said noncommittally. Light would only have to wait for—14-across was ‘oxeye’, so that made about a third complete—six more minutes. “Obscure synonym for furious.”
“Apoplectic,” said Light. “What?”
Not pausing to appreciate the irony, L breezed past 16- and 18-across. The clue for 19-across began with ‘Ambassador closes…’, so ‘he’ at the end. Holiday dressing. Seven letters. ‘Wreathe’, clearly. Light’s angry voice crackled out of the phone. 20, he’d come back to 21 and 22, 24 was ‘Miami’. Maybe L’d catch up on Friday’s puzzle after this just to annoy him.
L’s third floor flat sat just above the Kira team’s headquarters, facing a rather nice courtyard space owned by the office building, though L hardly opened his blinds to see it. No point, really. The monitor had enough light to see by. 25-across boasted ‘Conspirators overheard in slaughterhouses’. Fitting. Overheard; homophone. He cut Light off in the middle of his third threat to hang up and leave. “Conspirators?”
“Ugh,” Light said. “Betrayers. Deceivers. Traitors. Whistleblowers. Saboteurs. Rats.”
“Stop,” L said. Light grumbled something about thanking him. ‘Abattoirs’ it was. He’d already done 1-down. His back ached more than usual and his eyes burned with lack of sleep. Wammy needed to get more saline drops. 2-down was ‘vivisection’. L played this game with Light frequently; keeping him waiting, playing at power and control and independence, the both of them, both very aware, always, that L would let Light in and Light would come upstairs to L’s shitty dark flat— apartment, L, and it’s barely that —and walk past his unused kitchen into his disaster of a room and step over the strewn-about bedcovers and sugar-crusted teacups that pockmarked the floor and pull a second chair to sit at L’s obscenely unorganized desk, shoulder to bony shoulder, thigh to bony thigh. 3-down: ‘atrophy’.
L decided he was feeling merciful. Light hadn’t punched the doorbell in a while, and if he was going to wait, he may as well be productive; he could have the evens. “Monstrous delusion cuts con from co-chairman.”
“We’d finish this faster if I could see the puzzle,” Light said. L could picture him rolling his eyes, very theatrically. “Of course being busy on a Saturday means doing the crossword.”
“It appears I do have hobbies.” Onto 7-down. L’s mug was almost empty, just lukewarm undissolved sugar, rough against his tongue and slow down his throat. He’d have Light make him another cup when he came upstairs. “Emissary loses tea for certificate.”
“Not good ones. I’ll do better if you let me come see. You haven’t even given me the letter count.”
“You don’t need it.” L went back to fill in 10-across. “Spooner’s final stand for particular paint.”
“Fine. Lightfast, for that one.” Light sighed, and L recognized the familiar undertone of smugness it carried, the secret egotism that led L to mark him as probably-Kira so early on—obvious because L saw it in himself. L didn’t like to think too hard about their strange similarities, the parallel ways they thought, and neither did Light. “Chimera. Diploma.”
L had guessed all of those before, of course, but made sure to accentuate the sound of his keyboard clicking as he typed them in. Only two clues left. “Noodle soup for male soldiers.”
“Ramen. Aren’t these too easy for you, anyways?”
Comparatively, yes, but The Guardian’s Saturday cryptics required an amount of genuine concentration that was rare in L’s world. 21-across: ‘autophagy’. There. Things that truly grabbed his attention, even for a quarter of an hour, were fleeting, often volatile, dangerous. Like Light. Kira. Like the case. Like that April in Beijing with the rogue MI6 operative and the fake oil field. Like Amsterdam just after his eighteenth birthday where he’d spent five weeks chasing a homicidal art dealer—it could have been one week, but Johannes was fascinating, the rare sort of culprit that really understood the game of it all, not to mention one hell of a sexual awakening—until even Mello told him he was taking it too far and you really should bring the fucking guy in, L, just sayin’, before he runs, ‘cause the Politie are on my ass and I like the vibe here but my Dutch’s always been shit, and like, you can fuck sadists anywhere, which is fucking disgusting, by the way, ew, anyways, maybe just break up with him or whatever before you get fucking stabbed. It had been weirdly endearing.
“L,” said Light, “you’re done now. Can I come in so we can do whatever you needed me for.”
Light intoned it downwards, stressed the last word, deliberately not a question. L pushed his chair back and uncurled, grabbed his phone as he did, feeling muscles and joints protesting. His spine popped when he stood up, loudly, and he winced. Light’s laugh echoed in the dark room. L’s foot caught on a stray mug: he nearly tripped, slammed his palm into the light switch, ignored the increased sadistic glee from the phone’s speaker.
“You’re a-“ Light began, and L hung up. Didn’t want the screech of feedback when he opened the door.
“Hello, Light-kun,” L said a moment later, barefoot and squinting against the glare of the hallway as he met Light’s gaze, “I’m a what?”
The air in L’s flat hung static, warmer than it needed to be. Light placed his shoes neatly in the entryway and edged past him with a sharply courteous smile, predatorial, before slinging his jacket off and onto the dusty kitchen counter. L locked the door behind him. “Thank you for finally letting me in, L, and drop the honorific, we’ve been past that for ages.”
L hummed and trailed behind Light as he swept into the bedroom. The filled-in cryptic sat neon on the desk, the only orderly thing besides Light himself, with his pretentious jackets and ties and pushed-back cuticles, looking very out of place, like some disappointed headmaster, not a seventeen-year-old serial killer. Potential serial killer. Serial killer.
“You live like a frat boy,” said Light, bending down and dangling a teacup from between his thumb and forefinger. He wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. How are you older than me.”
“I was born earlier. Light-kun, you needn’t come, if you find it so debasing.”
Light stacked as many mugs as he could carry and placed them on the desk. “You said you wanted to work on the investigation. Rather suspicious, if I didn’t come, right? Something Kira would do?”
“Kira would do whatever he thinks would outpace me.” Light was starting to pick up the duvet. Making the bed. Too domestic. It’d get messed up soon. “Leave the bed, Light.”
“You don’t even have anything you need to work on with me. You finished it days ago. What, L,” Light said, and he flicked the lights off, leaving him backlit by the computer, a caricature of night despite it being well before noon, “were you lonely?”
L slipped his fingers into the knot of Light’s tie and pulled. Right above the jugular. “You knew it was a pretense and you came nonetheless. I wouldn’t call anyone lonely if I were you, Light-kun.”
Light pushed him down onto the half-made bed. Something, maybe his phone, dug into L’s back, mirrored as Light’s fingertips dug into his collarbone, knee between L’s thighs. Being held flat hurt after days of sitting curled and hunched over.
The clear displacement of Light in this room fascinated L. Distracted him from the physical threat, promise, over him. Light could make his body feel like it belonged to him, for once, hurt and ache in satisfaction, and as good as it was—because it was good, L was picky, didn’t do this often—it wasn’t the point. It’d always been about the mind. L squirmed as Light bit at his neck.
“You’re a bit of a wreck, L,” Light said, mouth to his skin, “Good thing Kira can’t see you like this.”
L dragged him closer with a fist in the collar of his too-white shirt. It wouldn’t end well, but the captivating things never did. “Good thing indeed.”