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L discovers it in a highly undignified way.
Ordinarily, he has nothing against sex. Executed well, it turns his vision into a stained-glass window of pleasure, tensile and potent to the point of harshness. Light might not be a perfect lover, but he is harsh and unkind, the way L enjoys it instead of loathing.
Hand in L’s hair, tugging in waves alternating between languid and sharp. His scalp stings, and sparkles burn the corners of his eyes. Hand pushing down between his shoulder blades; his neck muscles pull faintly.
He remembers he once sprained his trapezius - either Light was railing him, or he was railing Light. In the moment, he had not fully felt the injury, overly preoccupied with humiliatingly mind-numbing pain and heat. Later, he was boneless, melted, with 600 mg of ibuprofen and lidocaine over the shoulder blade and shoulder and neck at the beginnings of the ache.
Everything about Light, when either of them is angry, becomes about unwinding, fighting, and desire for closeness.
And pain.
It is pleasurable. His core aches with arousal, the air getting thin and hot, and every muscle trembles from physical stress. His head is on fire. And neither of them is particularly good at talking about how much wanting surrender can hurt - and how much they wish to see and experience the safe breakage of the other.
Outside of sex, Light complains and grumbles enough about L not wanting to worship him in bed, not to feed his ever-hungry ego. Light is painfully hotter when it is underfed. It drives him to act - playfully - vile.
And they both tend to forget - at times, sex is just a balancing act.
And he has gotten too used to it being effortlessly balanced.
L never cries. He dissociates, focuses, dismisses despair, wallows in heavy, flowing sadness, now always echoing in his trembling flesh and trembling bones with the soothing residue of the November rain.
Tears had happened to him maybe twice in his entire life. When he realised that Watari was there for him and he was no longer alone, and when the storm washed over his fatigue and pain on the rooftop of the skyscraper.
Being miserable is not on the list of his functions. Misery is silent and boring. He is capable of melancholy since it is not violent. He can gentle the little animal of his sorrow, curled in his chest, whenever it feels too empty for it to be warm and quiet. He can take care of it, help it breathe somewhere in the parks or forests, where there are no murders, no human suffering, no blood - when his chest feels overwhelmingly full with exhaustion, adrenaline, Light.
Depression is fine. Light is not aware of it, thankfully. L worked tirelessly to keep him from knowing.
If Light knew, Light could believe it is about him. Or a consequence of their game. Or, perhaps, he would narrow his eyes and judge, say smoothly, that L is the one at fault. L made his choices and will live with his decisions.
Light is capable of painless touch. And of easy, soothing conversation.
Light likes him more than L had ever thought Light could have.
It is an ache-inducing heat in L’s body when Light inevitably, with fake coldness, comes to idly talk to him after a vicious argument where they stab at each other instead of reaching for understanding they know the other would eventually silently give. The relaxing warmth on his skin, enveloping him in darkness and carefully restrained emotion, not to crush with its power, when Light cannot help but memorise every word out of his mouth. Light’s obsessive cleaning of his rare scratches. Rough and starving kisses on his neck, to help him feel good and better, when Light tops after winning a round and indulges in secretly innocuous cruelty. Light’s instinctive scowling at whoever drops an unflattering statement about L, Light’s unwavering focus on what makes him flinch and what calms him afterwards.
L had had expectations, came up with possibilities and scripts. Contingency plans. Ways to escape his arms.
Light didn’t win because he outmanoeuvred L. Merely dedicated more determination and indulged more obsession than L could have ever anticipated.
Kira liked him enough.
Light liked him. In… at least… some way. Somehow. He must have.
It was terrifying on its own. L felt sick at the endless reminders of how deeply he loved Light.
Desire could do considerable damage in reckless hands.
Desire could truly wound him. And Light hasn’t won yet.
He never cried. And knew Light’s contempt and open disgust at human weakness. Tears were too human for L as a person and detrimental to his defences; he could not let them own him for a second. L, thus, judged, from reasonable reasons, that Light would hate seeing them on him.
Or, perhaps, Light would enjoy them. Would get humiliatingly turned on and force more out of him, and L would still feel horribly safe and would enjoy it and would crave it eventually, even while detesting it. Because Light was proficient at doing it to him - cutting open, pulling at his soul-heart-whatever insides he had, tangling his thoughts out of malicious purpose and “righteous” bloody mission, until only thrill, and howling passion, and sweet and nauseating darkness, and Light, and thoughts and feelings about Light, were left. L did not ever mind it.
Except he dreaded seeing this version of himself, in any real reflection, either way.
It made sense to dread it.
If Light wanted to know what L would say about it, L would, in his dreams, tell him - and, in daylight and at night, would deny him the truth.
Truth was too tender and vulnerable to be touched.
He had let Light have him defenceless, though undeniably powerful and vocal, and stoic, in bed.
Light was cruel there. Laughed and smirked, looking superior and fanged. L was his hunter and dissector, and Light was his obsession and problem.
He was flawless in his roles.
Though Light appreciated having L beneath him, maybe.
L did not really mind; nonetheless, he would evade reality forever and crawl up the walls to not admit it.
Their shared board and battlefield - and, maybe, closeness - were built on both of them perpetually wanting to be on top. Intellectually.
Emotionally.
Physicality had little value in comparison to these.
Pure biology had never once made it his problem.
Or he wished to believe it.
“I’ll destroy you,” Light’s whisper was diamond-sharp and water-clear. L had heard this statement as anything but a promise. A simple and anticipated reflection of a vortex of complicated feelings. Only Light’s grip on him hurt wonderfully, and he felt speared with burn, and so floaty, he could not accept that this caught, weakened person was him. “I’ll rip out all your fucking suspicions.”
Yes. He was doing just that with all his pushing and making L’s blood pound in sync.
“I want to make your heart stop,” Light sounded sweeter and still poisonous and syrupy, yanking at his locks to choke him with catching moans.”How wild, huh? I want to kill you so much.”
L’s heart stops.
“But I don’t want you to die,” Light sighs.
L’s body feels the emptiness wedged in his lungs.
“I don’t want you dead, I think.” Light’s speech is velvety and fine. How? “I’d be so bored without you.”
He doesn’t make one bare sound.
“I’m pretty sure there are kinds of destruction you’d savour.”
End and night are behind his eyelids.
“Maybe this one,” he hears the smirk blooming wider, blood-red after he’d been habitually biting Light’s lips before he let Light let him rest face-down while Light used him and watched that L was into it and all wanting and willing and fine.
Light forces him open further, and it is pleasant. Nice. No unwanted hurt. No force L didn’t desire, or asked for, or likes.
L claws at the sheets, breathing with him, fire stinging in motions, and something sweet and cloying filling his mouth and nose.
Slowly, Light’s chest presses against his back, and his heart starts beating again. Skin sticking together and bodies sliding with sparkling warmth and tightening in spasms and licking kisses covering him and fingers instantly entwining.
His eyes fall shut. Light’s hold closes forcefully around him.
L lets his face turn to him slightly, barely managing rare ragged exhales without louder sounds.
Light is squeezing his hand and moaning coyly into his ear.
A snake relaxing him to keep him captive.
A part of him always despises the aftermath.
As his body starts cooling down, it feels as though his blood and feeling of being wanted do, too. While his insides hurt with emptiness, he has an illusory sensation of having been hollowed out - especially around his heart, as if it is hanging on a string in the cavity where his chest contents were supposed to be.
One cut and it might fall and shatter.
Submission is impossible for him. Not an option. Submitting is scary. He is afraid afterwards, almost fragilely so, despite knowing Light has been in his position nearly the same number of times, and everything always ended well for both of them, no matter who gave himself over.
Yet he feels used. He knows it is his body coming down, and pleasure hormones subsiding, flickering euphoria fading. The intensity of his reactions is an unfortunate aftermath of rough and borderline sadomasochistic sex. It is normal for him to feel this way, since he feels unreal, emotionally raw and with old heart wounds feeling tender, when Light goes even mildly mercifully on him. It is fine to feel this way. Such is life. And science.
And a fate he cannot bring himself to believe in. Gods of Death might exist, but L does not deserve Light. Not Light’s deranged murder sprees.
Not Light’s interest and attempts to touch every physical and metaphysical part under his skin.
That part of him does not want to talk about it in the aftermath. That part is almost all he is. The human part. The one Light must despise, if Light’s constant coldness and evil little smirks ever matter.
That part fought Light. With all L had.
L did all he could to trap them together, if they ever could have been.
Light played along and trapped them worse. It was inevitable, perhaps.
That part of L lies afterwards in Light’s bed, while Light dismissively wipes L off before throwing a blanket over him, and wonders if it was just a thrilling sex with BDSM or the fruits of Light’s hatred.
And L bit and swallowed anyway.
He does not know what he is besides this part.
Still, it is too tender to let it feel even a featherlight brush of Light’s momentary attention.
It is bare. He feels bared, turned inside out, and left baring himself to irrational fear of being damaged. It is a whole awful lot of feelings he experiences because of Light, and the prospect of willingly letting Light near his heart becomes a shadow of something terrifying, more real than intimacy and memories of the first gentle glances of fragile, illogical love.
Now, it hurts sometimes. He had deduced that it would.
He keeps his eyes closed. The darkness truly is an old, well-familiar friend. Helps him dream of calm and maintain composure. If he were not so worn out, he would have lain there solely to rest and think.
Neither world, nor justice, nor Light have ever been just to L. He remembers his pride weeping from the absence of clues. Ever darker nights, long games he wished were longer, and how, when they were pressed together and bloody, Light spat a triumphant, “I’m Kira” into his lips, and not knowing that L got it on tape. L told him later, pinning him to the dusty floor, L’s legs in Light’s face.
A few months of the fury-brimming standoff later, they had sex, and L could not read in Light’s acts whether Light had ever forgiven him for not having cared enough to give up.
Usually, L would either leave, or actually sleep, or let Light see L still being awake.
Now, L lies in silence, weary. Unable to fight it or leave.
He can rest here this once.
Light moves around the room for a long while. L hears him picking up books and clothes.
Light clicks on his phone, types on his laptop. There is a delicate swishing of pen over paper, a glass of water being poured, walking to the bathroom and taking a shower.
The warm, dim light caresses his skin. Light left it on. L pretends to sleep.
Light comes back, and the room smells of water and lavender with him in it. L hears, outside the windows, the first wet taps of rain. His eardrums pulse twice with the phantom ache of the nonexistent storm.
“Are you awake?” a soft whisper, a clean blade of impassive voice. L is exhausted, effortlessly still.
Usually, in the mornings, Light tells L that L is the one who presses to Light in his sleep.
L knows himself enough to believe that.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t lie to Light about being asleep. Wouldn’t care to lie; wanting to enjoy their time together, despite how tiredly and tensely abundant it might have been for long months now.
Light likes his rest. L cares enough not to spoil it for him.
Light lies down behind his back. Shuffles for a minute. Switches the light off, pulls the shared blanket over himself. Seemingly falls silent. L keeps his eyes closed.
Usually, L never sleeps. He can’t manage. Hence, he does not stay often or for long. Can’t do it to him.
And when he does sleep, he sleeps as if dead. Light must like it.
It must be the reason he hears Light shuffling a few inches closer. To stretch his legs and settle on the right corner of his pillow.
That is L’s deduction.
And until the following moment, he has never been profoundly wrong.
“Are you awake,” the inquiry.
Unfitting and flat.
L ponders letting the electricity tightening his chest, cutting his human heart, let him say, “No”. A childish, childish, obviously impacted retort. Telling Light the truth is practically inviting the use of his poisons and weapons, words and touch, and L cannot accept either of these.
Light almost laughs - L can hear it in the catch of the air in his throat. He bets it does not feel nearly as dry as his own.
Light is privileged not to feel so much.
Still, Light asks, “Are you alright?”
And it is the first true question Light has ever asked him.
L’s neck nearly cracks, a rusty mechanism, from how tensely he turns his head to Light.
“Why,” he responds. “Have you gotten concerned? Was I not ecstatic over your mortal derision?”
Light laughs this time.
L observes it without a comment.
When Light smiles at him, it feels as though the world is just the two of them sometimes.
L appreciates it more than he would want to.
And, as if it is nothing weighty, consequential, real at all, Light idly remarks, and his voice whips the air, does not echo once, “You cried.”
And nothing but Light’s closeness makes any sense.
L watches him, blinded by the immediate mental knowledge. Deafened by his body’s acknowledgement.
“That is true,” his own voice whispers in his muddled, tired thoughts. “It is real. It happened.”
It couldn’t have had. L should not be reacting; much less genuinely or viscerally.
“Have I,” he says.
This room, this intimacy will, he considers, forever bear the ruins of his ego.
Familiarly, Light smirks at him. Reddened irises bloody and bright. “Don’t be so scared.”
Pointless to deny. Fear is unnatural for L and rational with him.
“You act like I’ll destroy you.”
And wouldn’t he?
Wouldn’t he?
“Is this why you’ve never made any moves?”
“Not ‘never’,” of course, L denies. He holds no options in his hand.
“Have you never heard that love is pain?”
L’s air tastes like inescapable death. “I don’t love you.”
Light smiles - smirks, smirks. “And why are you lying now?”
L wants to say he is not lying.
“I know you. You don’t lie to yourself.” Blood-letting stings his heart.
“...Let it go, Light.” Chest hurts.
“Why?” He feels undignified.
Throat tight. “I am exhausted.”
“You have always been.”
In the reflection in the water in the ocean of his feelings, that is true, as well.
Light is lethal when he is right. Hence why L unfailingly turns away from him in the battlefield of their minds.
“If I don’t love you, then everything is okay,” L thinks. He says, “Go to sleep. We have an early call. With the FBI.”
“You’re not managing to sleep yet,” Light watches him. Of course. “Cancel that call.”
“Fuck the FBI,” Light implies.
L would have liked to agree to his face. Fuck the FBI. None of this is about business, or cases, or the reality of their war, or the FBI - or anyone else but them. Never has been, never will be. He agrees in his head.
But he will not gift Light this truth aloud.
“Sleep,” he gives instead. It is something, at the very least.
Scoff is all Light gives him back. L’s being aches faintly. It is just and fair.
“Suit yourself,” Light says.
And this moment ends for him.
Crying is not something L is capable of.
In the dead of the night, as he is conjuring sleep to take him away from this life, if for morning hours, Light slides his hands around L’s waist, over his sternum.
“You’ll tell me when you want to talk about it,” Light states his win.
In the darkness of his hold and trap, L is not as certain that this loss can be avoided entirely.
Not after all this time. Not since that day when L kissed him once.
It tasted of pain. And defeat.
It tastes of blood and sugar and gentleness now.