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The first time Light punches him for being unmotivated about the Kira case, it is a shock to the senses. Bright pain bloomed across L’s face like a firecracker, leaving a red mark on his cheekbone that turned purple and lingered there like a reminder that there was someone in this world who stood beside him as an equal.
Since then, he’s had a slight fascination with the bruises Light leaves on him during their altercations. Resorting to violence is ugly and childish and unbecoming of a grown man, not to mention it hurt – Light doesn’t hold back at all – but it’s a refreshing change from their usual mind games. The exchange of blows is far more honest than anything that comes out of Light’s mouth.
L stares at his reflection in the mirror. The bruise from their most recent spat has almost completely faded. He lifts a hand, bringing it to his face. If he prods at the blemish hard enough, by the space just under his eye, there is still a slight sting, though just barely, a remnant of the unjust violence inflicted on his person—
“Quit being dramatic, Ryuuzaki.”
L glances over his shoulder, his hand falling away from his cheek. His wrist feels oddly bare without the weight of a metal ring, but if he traces an invisible line extending from himself, Light is there at the end of it, almost perfectly six feet away.
Light is sitting on his side of the bed with a stack of files propped on his lap. Technically the whole bed belongs to L now, since Light is a free man. But Light still gravitates around him like they’re handcuffed together, often maintaining a distance where the chain that once bound them would not be stretched taut.
“It’s a surprise each time,” L says, with a touch of humor. Maybe it’s a habit – they were stuck together for three months, after all – perhaps Light had gotten used to his constant companionship. Most likely Kira just wants to keep L in sight. “I can’t remember the last time someone punched me. Other than Light-kun, that is.”
He can, actually. But it was a long time ago, back when he still lived in Wammy’s House. A decade. Two decades, maybe. Perhaps around the time Light-kun was born. L briefly toys with that thought before letting it go. The exact amount of time doesn’t matter.
In that sense, to have dragged L out from a place where no one, aside from Watari, ever got close enough to see his face, let alone throw a punch at him, it wouldn’t be understatement to say that Kira changed his life.
He brought L many firsts. A notebook that can kill people. A shinigami. A familiarity with the sight of Yagami Light comfortably stretched out on his bed.
L’s fingertips press consideringly against his bottom lip as he watches his suspect parse through a list of criminals who died during the past week.
“If you’re just going to stare, why not get some sleep instead?” Light says, without looking up.
“Is Light-kun concerned about my health?” L wonders, as he crosses the room, retrieving a box of cake from the mini refrigerator. “Rest assured. The lack of sleep will not compromise my deductive abilities.”
“That’s not how it works, Ryuuzaki. Human bodies are designed to need eight hours of sleep.”
There’s that caustic undercurrent again, one that makes the back of L’s neck prickle, bells ringing in his head as his intuition screams: Kira. He’s Kira. Light-kun is Kira.
“You’ve barely slept at all since Higuchi was arrested.” There is a touch of arrogance in his tone that was absent the last time they were alone in this room.
This version of Light-kun is indeed different from the boy who swung L’s chair around and grabbed his shoulders, looking him right in the eyes with an emotional appeal. I’m not Kira. Please believe me.
L had almost believed him. Or rather, he wanted to believe in Light. Except that L was L, and therefore it was physically impossible for him to delude himself into believing something he didn’t believe was true. And when words weren’t sufficient, Light hadn’t hesitated to sock him in the nose like a child who was denied candy.
This person in front of L isn’t him.
“You’re brilliant, but imagine how much sharper you’d be if you were properly rested.” Light’s tone drops. “Maybe you might even catch Kira, then.”
L hums. This Light is coldly factual and blatantly provocative, the one who took L on joyrides with hypotheticals and sophistry, the person he had been before his imprisonment. He’d returned to his former personality after Higuchi was arrested; to be more precise, the moment he’d laid his hands on the notebook.
L draws closer, tilting his head to better study Light’s face. Light doesn’t flinch or tense. He shows no outward signs of discomfort at the proximity.
“As expected,” L murmurs, gaze dropping to his cake. “Matsuda’s got good intuition when it comes to cake shops.” The bed dips under his weight as he settles next to Light, and it is only then that Light finally reacts, lifting his head to shoot him a disapproving look.
L ignores him, tucking his knees to his chest. He balances the entire slice of cake on his fork. A week ago, Light had snapped at him for dropping cake crumbs and proceeded to split the bed into two halves with a bolster to demarcate his territory. He doesn’t respond as childishly now.
“People’s lives depend on this,” Light says. It comes out a little flat and lacking in passion. “Be a little more serious, will you?”
But L is serious. He’s more convinced that Light is Kira – and that Light himself is aware of it – than he had ever been before.
“I am serious,” L says truthfully. “It’s just that there’s no need for me to go through the same files if Light-kun already is.” Of course, he’s already had them memorized last night while Light was getting his beauty sleep.
The sheet of paper crinkles in Light’s hands. “Even though you still suspect that I’m Kira?” Something flickers through his expression.
“Light-kun vehemently insisted that he wasn’t Kira,” L says, through a mouthful of cake. The strawberries in it are sour. “Or are you worried that you’ll miss something?” he challenges.
Light doesn’t bite. He simply states, “Isn’t that why we’re investigating together?”
Together. To become each other’s strength. To cover for each other’s weaknesses. Friendship. Rivalry. A farce. L swallows.
These are things he understood in theory but never truly experienced firsthand. These things have no place within L. They hadn’t. Now he isn’t sure. There is a reason why L never had friends before Light. There is a reason why he had declared Light his very first friend—
“If I were to examine those documents,” L says thoughtfully, “do you really think that I would find something you missed?”
—and it had nothing to do with whether what he felt towards Light was friendship or not.
But act out a lie long enough, and it starts to become the truth.
“What are you trying to say?” Light asks, soft and subtly honeyed, ready to offer whatever he wants to hear. Perhaps that’s why Amane remains so infatuated with him. Light has been blessed with a silver tongue, the charisma to move people’s hearts, and even L isn’t completely immune to it.
That talent is mostly wasted on him, though. L feels his lips twist into a smile. He plucks a strawberry off his cake, and holds it out to Light’s lips. “Light-kun has never truly cooperated with anyone. You only trust yourself.”
Light stares at the strawberry for a beat, before he acquiesces and leans forward slightly. His lips part, and, after another unnatural pause, delicately brush against L’s fingertips as he takes it. When Light pulls away, there is a gleam in his eye. “I could say the same about you, L.”
L. Not ‘Ryuuzaki’.
He wonders if Light differentiates between his identities the same way he differentiates between Light and Kira.
Light breaks eye contact first, attention returning to the investigation files. Silence blankets them as Light turns the pages. L watches him from the corner of his eye as he continues to eat his cake without tasting it. It’s merely a performance. He doesn’t need to study Light any more than Light needs to study those files when they both know who Kira is.
All that’s left is to test the thirteen day rule, after all. Once they obtain conclusive evidence, all the loose ends of the case will be tied up. When that happens…
Light turns to him, says, “Should we call it a night?”
The last of the files sits closed in Light’s hands, the last few pages left untouched. L glances to the clock on the wall. It’s still a few hours before Light usually gets sleepy.
L, perhaps in search of a bit of truth in a liar, impulsively reaches out. He brushes away a few brown locks from Light’s forehead, a careless gesture with more heart in it than L was aware he was capable of. Tucking the soft strands behind Light’s ear reveals a matching bruise on his temple and a flutter behind L’s ribs.
Light doesn’t startle. His eyes are alert, too sharp; he is too adept for his own good. “Ryuuzaki?” He frowns, fingers curling around L’s wrist. “There’s cream on your hand.”
Don’t touch me until you clean it off, his tone seems to imply, all the while tinged with a bit of exasperated fondness, in the way one might find a treasured person’s bad habits endearing. It must be entirely intentional.
“What’s wrong?” Light asks. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
“Just seeing who hit harder,” L says, fingers drifting over the fading mark. He has never acted as anyone other than himself.
Light’s eyes dart to his cheekbone. He might be the only person who sees the same scenery and understands what goes on in L’s head without having him water it down. The only one in the world who can reach L’s conclusions faster than himself.
“That’s surprisingly immature.” Light chuckles, as if he wasn’t a sore loser himself. A sliver of what’s under his facade surfaces, taking the shape of something wistful. “… I’m stronger, though.”
“No,” L disagrees. A tiny smile creeps across his face. “I am.”
”The bruise on your cheek is darker than—” Light cuts himself off with a sigh. “What does it matter, anyway.”
It seems that Light-kun isn’t acting like himself, either.
All good things must come to an end, L thinks, as he scrapes off the last of the cream. It’s a strange feeling.
“Light-kun,” L says, as Light places the stack of files on the bedside table. He waits for Light to look at him. “After we catch Kira, let’s play tennis again.”
It is an impossible request, for L will either solve the case or die trying. But Light looks at him with the tender gaze of an old friend. He smiles an angelic smile, close-lipped and not too wide, one befitting the quick-witted, charming boy L had met at Toudai’s opening ceremony, and not a delusional man whose sense of justice has been warped by power.
“By all means,” Light lies gently, as he slides under the covers.
The task force building has plenty of empty rooms in its twenty-two other floors for Light to sleep in, but L doesn’t tell him to go. He wordlessly turns off the lamp, dutifully following the routine they shared when Light wasn’t Kira – that time was enjoyable in its own way. In the darkness, L runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. There is no taste of iron. The cut from their last tussle has long healed, leaving behind only a slight bitterness at the back of his throat as he gazes upon the sleeping face of Light who is pretending to be asleep.
As always, they are built on lies buried in half-truths. L is made of a desire to solve cases and the frustration at the thought of being outwitted. But along the way there were other things: the warmth of falling asleep next to another person, the loneliness of losing a friend. They seeped into him, and each of those feelings bled together into an unrecognizable mess. The person he is now wants for both this relationship to end quickly and for it to last forever.
It is a contradiction, but of course there will be contradictions, when they’re both playing two roles. When there could have been a third.
In any case, what’s evident is that expressing such a sentiment wouldn’t change anything if Light was Kira. Even if Light was Kira. Whatever he chooses to say or not to say would amount to less than a good luck charm, because L is certain that Light is the person he’s always been searching for. He will not disappoint.
But even so, L shuffles closer and recalls the little flutter behind his ribs. For the sharp-witted mastermind behind the serial killings; for the quick-tempered boy who looked him in the eye and raised his fist at him and tugged at his heartstrings; for the clock ticking down the numbered days left with Light and all of their calculated petty fights, L turns it over and over in his head.
The answer he arrives at remains the same.
Assured in the knowledge that this will not— could not change the inevitable, L leans over and slowly touches his lips to Light’s forehead, featherlight and foreign, and in a voice quieter than the vicious bells ringing in his ears, he whispers a confession, from one liar to another:
“I loved you, Light-kun.”
With this, no matter how they end, no matter who wins and who loses, at least one of them will remember.