DN -- The Dawn of Remembered Time II: Elusive
Title: The Dawn of Remembered Time
Chapter: 2. Elusive
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Light/L
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,115
Warnings: implied sex, off-kilter humor
Summary: Light Yagami's metaphors were even worse when he was hungover and had just gotten laid.
Author's Note: lol, socks.
II - ELUSIVE
L opened his eyes. He blinked, looking at the graceful slope of the pillow before him, and tried to determine why it was that he felt so oddly exposed.
Pausing, he attended the input of all of his nerves, and the ones on his back duly informed him that the cool sheets were bunched down around his waist.
…if his nerves were anything to go by, it wasn’t just his back that was bare.
This was certainly an unusual set of circumstances. His head throbbed like a new wound, his blood squelched through his veins with difficulty, and his stomach churned sickly-which was a symptom that even veritable boatloads of sugar couldn’t engender.
Tentatively, he raised his head, pushing himself up on unstable arms, his splayed hands dimpling the mattress, and looked at the other individual tucked between the pale sheets.
L wasn’t much for swearing, or he would have let loose a string of expletives the likes of which the world had never…
Then again, he wasn’t much for inexplicable bedmates, and there was evidently a first time for everything.
Inexplicable. Yes. That was it.
This couldn’t be happening. There had to be another explanation, one that made an iota of sense, because this explanation was far too ludicrous to be possible. To put it simply, bluntly, and dreadfully truthfully, there was not a lacy snowflake’s chance in Hell that Light Yagami would sleep with L Lawliet.
There was a virtually endless list of reasons why such a contingency was completely out of the question, second among their number the incontrovertible fact that Light was an entirely upright human being; first and foremost that anyone as breathtakingly lovely as the young man lying next to him would never have to stoop to a slouching, sugar-gobbling one-man freak show for a night of sex.
If those things weren’t true, nothing was, and the time-space continuum was summarily and irrevocably doomed.
It was too early in the morning for this variety of logical Möbius strip, and the thing was starting to look like a noose anyway.
Or a handcuff.
Repelling the thoughts seeking to infiltrate the fortress that was his mind, closing his ears to their soft sirens’ voices, L took a deep breath and lay carefully on the bed again, letting his eyes slide shut.
It had been a nice dream, warm and sweet and quiet-and heady and wild and boundlessly, richly, immeasurably gratifying. Half-mad, half-scintillatingly clear.
It was a dream. Of course it was. Dreams he could dismiss.
He settled, the dark embracing him, enveloping his weakened limbs and delusional mind without discriminating, remarking, or passing judgment, in the way that sleep (and only sleep) always did.
He was woken again-no, not again; surely for the first time this morning-when the chain clinked and the sheets rustled. L didn’t open his eyes. More fabric whispered as Light dressed, the chain and his belt buckle jingling in unison. L gave his companion ample time to have rendered himself adequately decent before sitting up and rubbing at his eyes, pushing his insistent hair out of them.
Light had donned last night’s rumpled khakis and crimson sweater. His skin looked luscious, his disheveled hair delectable; and his wide eyes were enrapturing as he glanced up from his scrutiny of the sock drawer.
Eugh. Socks.
L supposed that even angels had their vices.
“Good morning, Light-kun,” he said, striving not to notice his own nakedness.
“Good morning, Ryuzaki,” Light replied, meeting L’s eyes deliberately, presumably with the goal of propagating the same denial.
There was a pause. Light looked away. “Sleep well?” he managed.
“I don’t recall,” L murmured in response. “I was sleeping at the time.”
Light made a faint, breathy noise that might, on a different day, have been something like a laugh.
L started to wet his lips with his tongue and then realized that that might not be the wisest course of action given its connotations. “Light-kun?” he prompted. “Might you do me a favor?”
Light dared to glance at him again. “Sure,” he conceded, without so much as asking what category of favor it fit.
L paused, as tactfully as the circumstances would allow. “I seem,” he noted, “to be missing my pants.”
Meticulously meeting his eyes, Light swallowed. “Ah,” he said, delicately. “Let me see what I can do.”
L drew up his knees-taking care to keep the sheet over them-and took his thumbnail between his teeth as Light navigated around the edge of the bed, negotiating the chain and hunting the carpet for the absentee article more intently than the task probably required.
The pants proved elusive. L felt his face heating, slowly and steadily like a stove coil, and shifted uncomfortably as Light went down on all fours and peered under the bed.
“Here they are,” he announced, incredibly calmly, his voice muffled by the mattress.
L was not feeling nearly brave enough to ask how, in the name of strawberries, sugar cubes, and all that was good, his pants had ended up halfway under the bed. Something told him that he very likely didn’t want to know.
Neither was he feeling obstinate enough to try not to be impressed with Light’s composure as the boy-for, oh, God, he was-straightened, holding L’s jeans, the white cotton boxers tangled in them in a way that looked almost forlorn, and offered the twisted clothing to its owner with pink cheeks but steady hands.
“Thank you,” L heard himself say as he took the bundle.
“You’re welcome,” Light told him.
L had always found the convention of the phrase slightly misleading. Literally, he was now permitted to request that Light seek out and return his pants to him at any time.
Although that arrangement did not sound at all disagreeable, given that it was based on a linguistic oddity, L doubted that Light would find it overly convincing.
Before L, through the pounding of his head, had time to figure out if he was even serious about this whole bizarre train of thought, Light had recommenced his search of the sock drawer, giving L the privacy to wriggle into his clothing again.
It unsettled him, thoroughly and profoundly, that he didn’t remember taking that clothing off. L’s mind was his greatest-and essentially only-weapon, and to be missing memories, to have lost some portion of his experience, was to forfeit his single source of power.
Sighing inwardly, he slipped off of the bed, still mindful of the chain, and started searching for his shirt.
He was unnerved, if not too terribly surprised, to discover it under the desk, all the way across the room.
[Chapter I] [Chapter III]
Chapter: 2. Elusive
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Light/L
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,115
Warnings: implied sex, off-kilter humor
Summary: Light Yagami's metaphors were even worse when he was hungover and had just gotten laid.
Author's Note: lol, socks.
II - ELUSIVE
L opened his eyes. He blinked, looking at the graceful slope of the pillow before him, and tried to determine why it was that he felt so oddly exposed.
Pausing, he attended the input of all of his nerves, and the ones on his back duly informed him that the cool sheets were bunched down around his waist.
…if his nerves were anything to go by, it wasn’t just his back that was bare.
This was certainly an unusual set of circumstances. His head throbbed like a new wound, his blood squelched through his veins with difficulty, and his stomach churned sickly-which was a symptom that even veritable boatloads of sugar couldn’t engender.
Tentatively, he raised his head, pushing himself up on unstable arms, his splayed hands dimpling the mattress, and looked at the other individual tucked between the pale sheets.
L wasn’t much for swearing, or he would have let loose a string of expletives the likes of which the world had never…
Then again, he wasn’t much for inexplicable bedmates, and there was evidently a first time for everything.
Inexplicable. Yes. That was it.
This couldn’t be happening. There had to be another explanation, one that made an iota of sense, because this explanation was far too ludicrous to be possible. To put it simply, bluntly, and dreadfully truthfully, there was not a lacy snowflake’s chance in Hell that Light Yagami would sleep with L Lawliet.
There was a virtually endless list of reasons why such a contingency was completely out of the question, second among their number the incontrovertible fact that Light was an entirely upright human being; first and foremost that anyone as breathtakingly lovely as the young man lying next to him would never have to stoop to a slouching, sugar-gobbling one-man freak show for a night of sex.
If those things weren’t true, nothing was, and the time-space continuum was summarily and irrevocably doomed.
It was too early in the morning for this variety of logical Möbius strip, and the thing was starting to look like a noose anyway.
Or a handcuff.
Repelling the thoughts seeking to infiltrate the fortress that was his mind, closing his ears to their soft sirens’ voices, L took a deep breath and lay carefully on the bed again, letting his eyes slide shut.
It had been a nice dream, warm and sweet and quiet-and heady and wild and boundlessly, richly, immeasurably gratifying. Half-mad, half-scintillatingly clear.
It was a dream. Of course it was. Dreams he could dismiss.
He settled, the dark embracing him, enveloping his weakened limbs and delusional mind without discriminating, remarking, or passing judgment, in the way that sleep (and only sleep) always did.
He was woken again-no, not again; surely for the first time this morning-when the chain clinked and the sheets rustled. L didn’t open his eyes. More fabric whispered as Light dressed, the chain and his belt buckle jingling in unison. L gave his companion ample time to have rendered himself adequately decent before sitting up and rubbing at his eyes, pushing his insistent hair out of them.
Light had donned last night’s rumpled khakis and crimson sweater. His skin looked luscious, his disheveled hair delectable; and his wide eyes were enrapturing as he glanced up from his scrutiny of the sock drawer.
Eugh. Socks.
L supposed that even angels had their vices.
“Good morning, Light-kun,” he said, striving not to notice his own nakedness.
“Good morning, Ryuzaki,” Light replied, meeting L’s eyes deliberately, presumably with the goal of propagating the same denial.
There was a pause. Light looked away. “Sleep well?” he managed.
“I don’t recall,” L murmured in response. “I was sleeping at the time.”
Light made a faint, breathy noise that might, on a different day, have been something like a laugh.
L started to wet his lips with his tongue and then realized that that might not be the wisest course of action given its connotations. “Light-kun?” he prompted. “Might you do me a favor?”
Light dared to glance at him again. “Sure,” he conceded, without so much as asking what category of favor it fit.
L paused, as tactfully as the circumstances would allow. “I seem,” he noted, “to be missing my pants.”
Meticulously meeting his eyes, Light swallowed. “Ah,” he said, delicately. “Let me see what I can do.”
L drew up his knees-taking care to keep the sheet over them-and took his thumbnail between his teeth as Light navigated around the edge of the bed, negotiating the chain and hunting the carpet for the absentee article more intently than the task probably required.
The pants proved elusive. L felt his face heating, slowly and steadily like a stove coil, and shifted uncomfortably as Light went down on all fours and peered under the bed.
“Here they are,” he announced, incredibly calmly, his voice muffled by the mattress.
L was not feeling nearly brave enough to ask how, in the name of strawberries, sugar cubes, and all that was good, his pants had ended up halfway under the bed. Something told him that he very likely didn’t want to know.
Neither was he feeling obstinate enough to try not to be impressed with Light’s composure as the boy-for, oh, God, he was-straightened, holding L’s jeans, the white cotton boxers tangled in them in a way that looked almost forlorn, and offered the twisted clothing to its owner with pink cheeks but steady hands.
“Thank you,” L heard himself say as he took the bundle.
“You’re welcome,” Light told him.
L had always found the convention of the phrase slightly misleading. Literally, he was now permitted to request that Light seek out and return his pants to him at any time.
Although that arrangement did not sound at all disagreeable, given that it was based on a linguistic oddity, L doubted that Light would find it overly convincing.
Before L, through the pounding of his head, had time to figure out if he was even serious about this whole bizarre train of thought, Light had recommenced his search of the sock drawer, giving L the privacy to wriggle into his clothing again.
It unsettled him, thoroughly and profoundly, that he didn’t remember taking that clothing off. L’s mind was his greatest-and essentially only-weapon, and to be missing memories, to have lost some portion of his experience, was to forfeit his single source of power.
Sighing inwardly, he slipped off of the bed, still mindful of the chain, and started searching for his shirt.
He was unnerved, if not too terribly surprised, to discover it under the desk, all the way across the room.
[Chapter I] [Chapter III]