Death Note Fan Fiction ❯ Going to Marrakesh ❯ Playmate ( Chapter 2 )

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *
Playmate
* * *

"Any news?" he asks somewhere in the middle of the third day.

"None that I'd give you," comes the predictable response, and he smiles into the camera and gives a little laugh and toss of his head.

"Thought so." He blinks and looks down, lets his lips curl softly downward and his brow furrow, the picture of a concerned teenager trying to hide his concern and not quite succeeding. "How's my father holding up?"

"As expected."

Perfectly timed, he bites his lip and looks to the side. "Ah, I see," he says, just loudly enough that the microphones will pick it up. "And... mom and Sayu are still okay?"

"They're being watched for their own safety," L tells him, and he lets his annoyance show for a moment before schooling his features into a pleasant mask - no sense in changing his behavior now, because he knows suspicion is rising with every moment that drags by.

"I understand," he says, as though he's half-reluctant about it, as though he hasn't known that they're always being watched, just in case. Idly, he wonders if, in L's place, he would be just as paranoid, and suspects it could be true - after all, his self-proclaimed first friend is planning to kill him. "Thanks, Ryuuzaki."

These little interludes are the only thing keeping him entertained - the cell is stultifying and despite Ryuk's innovative contortioning, he can almost feel his own brain cells melting from inactivity. He keeps up a healthy fantasy life involving the thousands of different ways he'll kill L, the future of the world as he guides it along the road to perfection, and the thought of a solid dinner - predictably, all he's eaten in forever is a thin protein-rich soup, sipped through a straw.

One boring afternoon, they debate theology, and predictably, L is an athiest. Light smiles and dreams of showing him God even as he considers the finer points of Shinto and Buddhism and monotheism and eventually winds up declaring himself agnostic. It's a lie, but a reasonable one, and he won't worship himself even though everyone else should.

He'll miss his mind when he's gone, but it will be worth it to win, and sometimes in dreams he reaches for him and kills him slowly, softly, careful and beautiful and delicately orchistrated, because he deserves only the best - not like a common criminal, because even though he's a heretic, he's the most lovely blasphemer he's ever seen.

They debate politics and philosophy and literature over a breakfast of protein shakes and candied citron, a lunch that tastes like military rations and sweet creamed cakes, and a dinner that neither one of them finish because they're both on their feet and screaming and hissing into their respective microphones.

"Could you come visit me sometime?" he asks offhandedly sometime later, draped over his cot and staring blankly at the junction of wall and ceiling, unsure of the hour or the day, "I miss seeing you."

"No," L tells him, and he narrows his eyes.

"Torturer."

"Perhaps," L says softly, and he has to laugh, because it's true and they both know it, that ruthlessness is the only way they'll ever win this game, and if it were allowed, they'd stab each other in the back in a heartbeat.

"If we'd met before all of this," he says consideringly, "It would be the same, wouldn't it?"

There's a brief pause that stretches into something longer as L ponders the question, as Light daydreams of meeting the boy in a lecture and slowly strangling him to death as the professor drones on. "Likely."

He lets his lips curl into a smile. "Good."

It seems like an eternity before he knows he's at the point of breaking, and even though it's his own design, he's still enraged by his own weakness - but he's damn sick of L and his questions and Ryuk and his spasms and when he says the words, he knows it's for the best. He's plotted it and planned it and even if the world falls through, he'll never get caught.

...and this was stupid and insane and why had he even suggested this?! It takes screaming and pleading and the sound of a gunshot roaring in his ears and he thinks Ryuuzaki you fucking bastard through Misa's quiet sobs and his father's ragged breathing and his own panic, cooling now, enough that he can breathe in and understand the reason behind it all, even though it stings behind his eyes and leaves a sour taste of bile on his tongue.

When they get to the hotel, he throws up until he's left dry heaving and glares through watery eyes at his so-called friend, watching and patient and soulless.

"I hate you," he hisses through a haze of pain and rage and frustration, and L reaches over and hands him a towel and a glass of water and watches as he rinses his mouth and splashes water on his face and tries to remember how to breathe.

He looks up when he finally feels human again, and stares at the face in the mirror - he looks too haggard and too tired and much, much older than his tender years. "I understand why you did it," he says softly, "I don't like it, but I understand."

"Hm," L says, watching him watching him in the mirror.

"...you really don't give a damn about people, do you?" It comes out as a whisper, and he grips the towel too tightly, but at least that means he won't break or hit anything, no shattered mirrors or shattered bones, and he doesn't know why that makes him think of roses and Misa dancing, trailing bloodstained ribbons along the ground.

L snorts and rises to his feet, heading for the door, and the motion is enough to snap him from his odd daze and blink hard, trying to refocus. "And you do?" he questions, soft and hard all at once, and if he were anyone else but himself, he wouldn't have been able to detect the scorn lurking beneath the words.

The handcuffs are weird, but he understands that too, and disconcerting as it is, he likes being with Ryuuzaki, at least when it's not pissing him off - he's never had a real friend before, he's just played the game and smiled and given them what they wanted, and even if the whole situation is utterly embarrassing and he's been forcibly struck with the vaguely horrifying thought that his best friend really is a pervert - and he manages somehow, because he understands the necessity of it all, even if he doesn't quite know what to make of the blunt accusations on his lips and in his eyes. But at least he's got his attention, even if it is disconcerting, and he has a goal, and somehow he manages to keep up with their dance, even if it does mean he fumbles and occasionally gets kicked in the face for his troubles. If this is what emotional involvement means, he doesn't want any of it, and resents being stuck with his own odd fondness and bitter hatred for the boy-man-thing lurking constantly at the edge of his vision.

Traitor, he whispers in the quiet of an evening snack, trying to stare somewhere past L's head and out into the city, but the window only shows his reflection, two boys and a pile of cupcakes, and he thinks this is what it must feel like to suffocate, trapped in softly fluffed pillows with the sticky-sweetness of expensive icing lingering on his tongue.

* * *

Feedback?

Back to Death Note Fic
Back to Fanfics
Back Home