Death Note Fan Fiction ❯ Going to Marrakesh ❯ Serenity ( Chapter 7 )

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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Serenity
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He likes the nights best, surreal and silver-gilt and oddly fitting - better, far better to whisper in the close, suffocating stagnancy of their hotel room than to speak of slow-growing madness beneath the constant blaze of fluorescent lights and computer screens and expectant faces, putting on a show for the slower detectives who are necessary for their game but aren't a part of the essential world that he considers to be his own. And even though he knows this dance, it exhausts him, all shine and spit-polish and sleep deprivation, and as much as he wants to slide into L - no, Ryuuzaki's lap and curl in and nap his way through the afternoon, it's not something fitting and it's not something right, so he doesn't.

I will not be that weak for you, he thinks, and doesn't stare at the way he licks a silver spoon and his own fingers, no matter how much he wants to.

L would probably shove him away if he reached for him now, although he's not sure, but he's also not confident enough to try, because the only thing worse than having his father and colleagues watch him snuggle with another boy would be to have his father and colleagues watch him attempt to snuggle and instead get kicked off of the object of his so-called affections. L has no sense of personal space, but he also has no sense of decorum, and doesn't hesitate to embarrass him, so he's just as well off not trying, no matter how much the late nights and early mornings wear on him.

He now knows what it's like to be exhausted enough that he never sleeps, and he hates it with a violent passion that has made him fight violently for a decent bedtime, for all that L is a horrible bedmate and a distraction all in one.

Sometimes they talk. Light will lay sprawled across the bed, fingers tangled in the starkness of L's shirt or hair - once deliciously curled through his belt loops, and that night was sweet-sour with kisses that tasted of tea and synthetic sugar, and the soft, delicate play of slim fingertips on his skin, light and fleeting enough that he was left trembling and flushed when morning broke, and he hadn't slept at all that night, realizing a groggy-eyed hour or two later that the cake and awkward smiles meant that it was his birthday, and he was much too exhausted to enjoy the fuss and indelicate attention until they'd finally been convinced to leave and he could pounce on L and steal a proper kiss, slow and hot and eager and starving.

"Please?" he murmured at their parting, not a plea because it was just a word, just a negotiation to get what he wanted, and L's smile was a slow and deadly thing in the dark.

They wiped the security tapes in the morning and never spoke of it again, but he thinks on it sometimes, watching the fall of dark hair against pale skin and the curve of his throat as he breathes.

Once, buried in files and papers and scrawled notes and letters, he blinked and looked up and reached over and tilted L's chin up so he could stare at him properly. "This is fun," he told him, and because they were blessedly alone for once, he could lean over and kiss his cheek, sweet as Misa and just as obsessive. "Thank you."

L just smiled at him, an odd little twitch of his lips. "Light-kun is a charmer."

He frowned a little. "You think I'm a serial killer," he pointed out, "and I only charm those who are foolish enough to believe it." Which you don't, he didn't say, because the line was old and even he was growing tired of it by now. But you're wrong.

"I know," was all that L said, and met his eyes serenely, sipping delicately at the sludge in his coffee cup. "Serial killers can be charming."

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all, but he didn't, just watched the path of cup and saucer as they were deposited back on the table. Light put down the files, reached over, and kissed him on the mouth, delicate and gentle. When he pulled away, it was close enough that their noses and lips still brushed. "Childish bastard."

"Yes," L said agreeably from a scarce handful of centimeters away. "Same to you."

Light snorted and wiggled around for a more comfortable seat, quite deliberately driving his elbow in the general vicinity of L's left kidney. "This is stupid. I want," he said softly, voice accusative. "It's not a pleasant sensation. Did you plan for this?"

"Suspected and anticipated, not planned." One pale hand darted out, slim fingers sliding up along the inside of his arm as he fought down a shiver. "There was an eighty-three percent chance that you would be more interested in trying to best me than interested in me personally." His smile was a peculiar thing. "I trust that has not changed."

"Of course I still want to win," he said softly, unrepentant and well aware that dropping that dream would make them both grouchy and miserable. "Want to show you I'm right and you're wrong."

"And then what do you want, Light-kun?" Calloused fingertips were rough-softness as they traced slowly along the path of his veins, threading back up to his heart. A threat, or more of that odd gentleness? Either way the touch made him tremble unpleasantly. "Will you go back to school, become a police officer?"

Light snorted softly. "Why ask a question when you know the answer?" You know we don't have a future - so what's the game now?

"Humor me."

"Why should I?"

L kissed him then, warm and deep and slow, and didn't let go until Light was sunk back deeply in his chair, hands tangled in his hair and clothes and wiggling his way up against the knee wedged between his legs. Light squirmed a little, shameless in his enjoyment of the heat between them, and pulled him closer, more fully into the weight of his chair. "I'll go with you," Light said, "and you'll take me because I'm useful and you like me."

"Hm," L said, and Light kissed him again, wet and warm and sweet.

"It's true though," he whispered, "we have to win, because we're both so close to perfect."

"You want to be perfect," L breathed against his ear, "but I'll break your dream, Kira."

He closed his eyes and slid his hands up the knobby length of his spine, let his fingers brush against soft denim and pale, pale skin. "Perfection is a lie," he whispered, lying, "We both know it, and I'm not Kira."

"You dream as if you are," L told him, pulling back, and spent a precious moment delicately winding the chain through their linked fingertips.

He inhaled shallowly, just watching, just letting him do as he pleased. "I want the world to be better, but I don't think I could be a murderer... whatever powers Kira has... I don't..." I wouldn't, he thought, but he knew it was at least halfway a lie.

"Not anymore," L whispered almost tenderly, and he tugged him down for another kiss, slow and soft and hungry.

"People are awful," Light murmured when he remembered how to breathe again, "Even with Kira on the loose, they still murder, they still steal, they still kill... if there were another way to bring the numbers down..."

"That will never change," L told him softly, "Nothing ever changes."

Another step, another twist, another turn in the dance, and he knows it's true, because if they don't die here they'll die somewhere else, still dancing. He's not in love, but he likes the kisses and caresses for the simple fact that it's attention, and even though every caress is another attempt to coax out the truth from him, every kiss he steals is his own counter, whispering "I'm innocent it's not me I didn't I wouldn't it's not you're wrong" against cool lips and soft tongue and too-fleeting sweetness that barely masks the rot beneath.

It's a good game, the best, and he's never felt this much before. It could be like being drunk or stupid, or like falling in love, except neither of them know or care what love is, so fleeting physical attraction and burning curiosity combine to make it something that isn't now and never will be a romance.

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