Etched 6a
Title: Etched
Summary: It was a brief fling that lasted much longer than it was supposed to. One a student and part-time forensic artist, the other the greatest detective in the world. When it ended, both were sure they'd never meet again. But fate had other plans. AU.
Pairing: L/Light
Rating: R
Chapter 5
Chapter Six
Mornings and Decisions
It was odd, waking with someone next to him. L couldn't remember the last time he'd shared a bed with another body. He wasn't sure he ever had.
At the orphanage, when a child, he'd always had his own room, as Wammy House was large and genius orphans were few. Of his life before, he had no memory and therefore no way of knowing what his sleeping accommodations had been for the first four years of his existence. And as an adult, whenever he indulged in sexual relations, he either kicked the other person out after the act was completed, seeing no need to be polite once his needs were satisfied, or they left themselves - as they had the discrimination to perceive he didn't want them there anymore and lacked the arrogance to stay anyway.
Unlike certain other people, who, with a lazy smirk like a contented cat, said, "That was fun," then curled up in a ball and promptly fell asleep on other people's beds. L was unaccustomed to such arrogance from his sexual partners. Yet he had found himself, for the most part, unbothered by it.
It was cavalier, egotistical behavior - either assuming he was welcome to stay in L's bed or not caring enough to leave if he wasn't (L guessed the latter was closer to the other man's thought process) - yet when Light did it he made seem like he was doing L a favor, rather than encroaching on his hospitality. But at the same time, L felt sure Light had done it with the explicit purpose of irritating him.
And he found it terribly interesting.
Just like Light himself. Light was interesting. Sex with Light was interesting. Conversation with Light had thus far been interesting. And trying to get under Light's skin, irritate him and break his composure, return a snide remark for each barbed retort, was certainly very interesting and much more fun than it should have been.
Speaking of which, L had a bit of revenge to exact for a certain tea-filled coffee mug from yesterday evening. It was petty and immature, yes, but L had never denied he possessed either of those traits.
So, with a glance at Light's face beside him, which was tucked halfway beneath the cover and still caught in that peaceful suspension of sleep which made devils appear to be angels and gave youth to the aged and weary (and, apparently, made flawless Greek statues out of Light-kuns), L slipped covertly from under the blankets and half-tiptoed, half-shuffled out of the bedroom.
A clock in the sitting room obligingly informed him of the time, which was a little after seven o'clock. A Friday morning, with birds talking over each other outside the windows; L wondered if Light had classes today, and he marveled at the irresponsibility of college students who indulged in sexual acts on a night before they had school.
It would be a pity if Light were to be late for a class, as that was probable to make him annoyed, which annoyance would most likely be unreasonably directed at L.
L was, perhaps, a little too pleased by that prospect.
But such matters could be taken care of later. At the moment, L was more concerned with locating Watari and arranging for some breakfast. And what sort of host would he be if he didn't provide something for his guest? With such pure intentions in mind, L spotted his cell phone waiting obediently on the coffee table and pinched it up, swiftly pecking in Watari's number.
Usually, by this time of the morning, Watari would already have returned from wherever he'd spent the night while L released sexual tension, often with breakfast and morning tea in hand. Today, however, there was no Watari (or breakfast pastries) in sight.
It was easy to deduce what had happened. Watari had no doubt returned while L and Light were still wrapped in sleep, seen the extra pair of shoes remaining by the door and concluded Light was still present in the suite, so had likely left quietly, in his typical calm and unruffled manner, waiting just a phone call away until his services were needed. Watari could always be counted on to act in greatest propriety and efficacy.
He was a loyal, resourceful soul; whether serving the perfect cup of tea (in a teacup, as it was meant to be served) or sniping a dangerous criminal from the unsteady support of a helicopter, he had been at L's side, discreetly and competently attending to his needs. And for thanks he got to put up with L and his three nosy successors bickering day in and day out. L sometimes wondered if Watari was an occupational masochist, as he certainly didn't understand where his job satisfaction could come from when babysitting four temperamental geniuses.
Against L's ear, two subdued rings finished sounding out, followed summarily by a courteous voice.
"Ryuzaki."
"Watari," L returned pleasantly. "Is breakfast prepared?" he asked in English, as was his custom when speaking exclusively with his faithful sidekick.
"For the most part, sir. I have prepared you a tray of your favorite pastries today, in the French manner. However, I was unsure what your guest would prefer, as I doubt he shares your unusual tastes in sustenance, so I prepared a variety of traditional Japanese and western breakfast choices from which he can choose."
There was no indelicate hesitation before the word 'guest', just as befitted a butler-like figure such as Watari. L, in a vague sort of way, appreciated this. Not that he really would have cared; but Watari's opinion was one he had always valued a little more than others', so he was glad he had never shown any blatant disapproval of L's manner of releasing sexual frustration. Watari, after all, was from a more traditional generation and, despite his considerable tolerance towards L and company's exploits, was more likely to frown upon casual, one-night relationships.
Yet he never did, and L was glad.
"Thank you, Watari," he replied, exercising his oft-absent manners. "I'm sure Light-kun will be pleased. Do you have coffee prepared? I happen to know he is quite fond of coffee."
"Yes sir, I have a pot ready."
"Excellent," L said in satisfaction, perhaps a little more satisfaction than was strictly necessary. "Also, I believe Light-kun is rather peculiarly particular about how his coffee is served and will only drink it from a teacup, so would you be sure to accommodate him in this?"
This request was followed by a rather eloquent silence, one which informed L that Watari saw straight through his innocent words and directly to his mischievous intent, but he had no intention to involve himself or even understand what L could possibly gain from his inexplicable desire to serve his guest's coffee in a teacup.
"Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?"
"That will be all."
"Very good. I shall be there shortly."
L clicked off before Watari could, never having understood a reason to waste time with unnecessary words of farewell.
He wasn't entirely sure where Watari had gone to prepare this varied and probably lavish breakfast; L rather suspected he had politely hijacked the hotel's kitchen, though he was resourceful enough that there were at least a dozen different means by which he, with infallible ease, could have ensured L's breakfast was prepared on time. But L hardly ever concerned himself with how Watari fulfilled his duties, which was itself a sign of how capable butleresque man was - L didn't have to worry about it. If L didn't know better, he might have wondered if Watari was truly human and not a product of advanced human-aid robotics.
L replaced his phone and glanced around the room, bathed in the pale, washed-out light of morning, and listened as there was a sudden rush of noisy, pipe-carried water through the walls.
Ah. Light was awake - and apparently taking advantage of L's shower.
This was fortuitous.
And a little arrogant of Light, to high-handedly take it for granted that he was welcome to L's shower, as he was his bed. But L, as mentioned before, was coming to learn that arrogance came as naturally to Light as breathing, though it was covered in an intoxicating haze of charm that many people likely failed to see through. L wasn't so blinded.
But neither was he repulsed by the arrogance, surprisingly. It was…refreshing, in a way. Interesting, despite the ways it could potentially clash with his own admitted ego.
And if it resulted in a wet, naked Light-kun in his shower, L was all for it.
He took another look at the helpful clock from earlier and discovered it was twenty-two minutes past seven o'clock. Watari would probably arrive with breakfast within three minutes, give or take about forty seconds. Light's food would most likely be cooled within twenty minutes (he didn't need to worry about the pastries cooling, as they were served at room-temperature), considerably more if Watari left a warming cover over it (ninety-seven percent chance of this happening); the coffee would be unpleasantly bitter (the sort of bitterness that couldn't even be smothered out with sugar) within forty-seven minutes.
Plenty of time for shower sex.
And there was no reason not to take advantage of Light's continued presence in the hotel - after a week of obsessive research and almost exclusively Light-centered thoughts, L thought it rather silly to have assumed he would have been satisfied with one night. Light was obviously meant to be a fine delicacy of a cake, deserving to be spread out, savored and unhurriedly consumed - as opposed to say, a low-quality chocolate bar, which, while tasty and full of the necessary sugar to make something edible, in truth only required a few quick chomps to get the full possible enjoyment (not unlike the majority of L's sexual partners).
Yes, Light was a cake. A superior red velvet cake, perhaps: eye-catching, exotic, smooth and beguiling with a subtle hint of chocolaty taste that nevertheless addicted the tongue and made lesser cakes pale in comparison. Or maybe a chiffon cake: light and airy with a sophisticated appeal.
No, neither of those were quite right. Red velvet was too garish, chiffon too common and lacking in substance. Light was a cake both elegant and distinctive, light yet complex, savory and subtly addictive without overpowering the senses with richness - maybe with a dash of liquor to account for the intoxicating influence his presence gave.
Perhaps a tiramisu? That could be fitting. The coffee-soaked savoiardi and sprinkled cocoa powder supplied a bitter contrast to the sweet egg and mascarpone mixture, giving it a complexity and balance between two paradoxical extremes, and the frequent addition of a dark rum or sweet Marsala wine was appropriate.
L would have to give this some more thought. Perhaps if he tried eating a variety of cakes directly off of Light, he would be able to find a more suitable comparison. And if this happened to lead to sexual relations, L certainly wouldn't complain.
But the time for that was later. At the moment, Light's shower time was swiftly slipping away, and it would be an unconscionable shame to allow this opportunity to run by ungrasped. Wet, naked Light-kuns did not usurp his shower every day, after all.
And L was nothing if not opportunistic. If the next time Light strolled out the door of L's suite was the last time L saw him, then he intended to make the most of the time he was still confined within its walls. It was the only rational thing to do, really, when presented with someone as attention-snaring as Light.
Because L wanted a little more. He wanted another taste, at least another bite of cake before he let Light run off. And he was surprised by the extent to which he didn't want Light to run off quite yet.
It was unusual, and when something was unusual L felt it his duty, as L, to dig into the matter and satisfy all curiosity.
Light had been interesting; Light was still interesting after a night of sex, and to put it in very juvenile terms, L wasn't quite done playing with him yet - and he only had a little time left to convince Light that he should feel the same.
The game wasn't over yet.
So with such conscientious thoughts in mind, L pushed all thought of cake analogies aside for the moment and shambled happily towards the shower, where a slice of Light-kun was waiting.
Light had not been surprised when he felt Ryuzaki slip into the shower behind him.
Nor had he been surprised by the sneaky, wandering hands that slipped around his soaped-up torso, making no pretence of their lascivious intentions as strands of black hair tickled at his shoulders and neck.
He wasn't surprised by the way teasing touches turned bolder and more deliberate, or by the way his body began burning in interest as he relaxed into the hands.
He wasn't surprised that washing became less and less interesting; he wasn't surprised when the soap slipped forgotten to floor, sudsy water swirling friendlily around it and two pairs of dripping feet.
He wasn't at all surprised at the wasted water and time, and certainly not by the consequential need for another rinse, a little while later.
Then, when both were dried and clothed (Light unfortunately having little choice but to don his wrinkled, day-old outfit) and a little less horny, he wasn't surprised by the opulent, varied breakfast spread he found waiting them in the kitchen, warm and reviving and enticing - aside from the death plates of sugar likely intended for Ryuzaki, of course. Those, unsurprisingly, seemed gritty, suffocating in sugar, and enough to make his teeth ache just looking at them.
Light was, however, surprised when he saw the mocking, coffee-filled teacup smirking up at him near a plate of the teeth-hating pastries, though he recognized immediately that he really ought to have expected it. This was undoubtedly Ryuzaki's doing.
An innocent glance and casual "Is the coffee not prepared to your liking, Light-kun?" thrown his way by Ryuzaki confirmed this, reminded him of the exasperating, fascinating nature and spark of electrically charged rivalry that had so intrigued him last night and made their fucking so intensely interesting - so he accordingly wasn't surprised when, a few minutes and increasingly juvenile comments later, they were shoving each other onto the breakfast table and trying to eat each other's face off, almost knocking over a still-warm cup (goddamn teacup) of coffee and several other carefully prepared dishes, both aware that they were unlikely to get hard again that soon but sure as hell going to do what they could in the meantime.
And a meantime later, after breakfast and an attempt to straighten his considerably-more-wrinkled-than-before clothing, which still weren't anywhere near the natural state of Ryuzaki's perpetually disheveled clothes, Light realized that if he didn't want to be stuck in his unpresentable clothes for the rest of the day, he'd need to be leaving within the next fifteen minutes or he'd run out of time.
So, after another coffee-laced kiss and a "I need to get going," he tracked down his sketchbook in the sitting room, Ryuzaki meandering along behind to pause in the doorway, and he was unfortunately unsurprised one last time - this time by the quality of the final sketch contained within.
"This is shit."
And it was. But what else had he honestly expected when he'd allowed himself to be distracted the entire time he was drawing it, eventually abandoning it completely in favor of fucking with the face's owner? That was not the sort of situation conducive to artistic success.
But he didn't regret it. And he didn't regret breaking his usual 'no one-night-stand' policy that had stuck with him throughout his sex life. He'd been right, as he always: Ryuzaki had been a fascinating fuck, one who knew how to play the game and wasn't afraid to challenge Light, with clever hands and a forceful gaze and a will to match his own.
"Maybe it can be salvaged," Light said, speaking of the unpromising sketch in his hands without much enthusiasm. It didn't really matter, he supposed. Sleeping with Ryuzaki had been a diamond mine of new perspective, and Light felt confident that with this new information he would be able to finally pin down that damn convoluted, paradoxical essence. The night had been a success, in more ways than one.
Fucking was an excellent means of insight on a character, much better than just sitting around looking at a person.
"In any case," Light continued airily, "I don't think it would accomplish anything to try doing it live again. I don't think it's a problem with memory - it's a problem with your face. I'll just have to keep working on it."
Ryuzaki, who had wandered closer as Light examined his work, poked his head curiously over his shoulder, black eyes roving over the page.
"There is nothing wrong with my face. And you're too harsh, Light-kun. It is actually a quite skilled drawing."
"Ryuzaki, I have no doubt that even you, who I suspect to be more artistically unintelligent than the majority of the population, can tell this drawing is missing something. And since your face has thus far refused to be drawn, I would call that something wrong with it."
Light felt Ryuzaki's body get even closer to his back - but never touching, their clothes only barely brushing.
And the distraction of Ryuzaki's sudden presence behind him was unavoidable - a constant warmth spreading across his back, a quiet note of understated tension. It was the first word of another conversation, spoken with their bodies and unheeding of what their mouths were saying.
"It is immature to blame your difficulties on my face, when it is clearly never the subject's fault in artistic matters such as this," Ryuzaki returned evenly, quietly, and without hesitation, his breath tickling the back of Light's neck and sending flickers of awareness up and down his spine. "Also," he murmured, a little sulkily, "I would never call myself unintelligent in any aspect of life. Less experienced, perhaps, about things that don't matter, but never unintelligent."
Light didn't bother glancing back at him to see the pouting frown pulling down his lips, having seen it enough by now to imagine it quite well without doing so. Instead, he kept his head forward and his voice causal, his body hyperaware of the presence behind him, his mind annoyed by the childish argument despite this.
"That," he said decisively, "is because you clearly have an ego the size of one of the Wonders of the World and would probably never say anything that would make yourself look stupid, however true it might be."
A hesitant finger, softer than a child's kiss, brushed along the curved shell of Light's ear, setting off an explosion of tiny shivers throughout the nerve endings in the back of his neck and dropping all the way down his spine - at odds with the blunt, unemotional words that came with the timid touch.
"It's very interesting how quickly your façade of civility drops after sex, Light-kun."
That ass.
However, Light let his body relax into Ryuzaki's, his back meeting the solid warmth of Ryuzaki's chest. He reached a casual arm back over his shoulder, comfortably hooking it around to palm the side of Ryuzaki's head. His fingers began to slip through black hair like they would a deck of cards, stroking with light tugs and almost absentminded allurement.
"And it's interesting how you seem to think sex gives you the right to call my good manners a façade," he said carelessly, "especially considering you have absolutely none to speak of."
Ryuzaki's head dipped down and forward just a bit, almost as if he was nuzzling into Light's hand, giving Light the incongruous feeling he was stroking the head of a particularly friendly dog. He immediately let his hand slide down to play along the side of Ryuzaki's neck instead, fingertips trailing with a feather's touch.
"I have good manners," Ryuzaki insisted, tilting his head now to brush his nose against the sensitive bump at the base of Light's neck; Light could feel his breath ghost across his skin. "I merely see no logical reason to falsely employ it, as certain other people frequently do," he added, speaking softly into Light's spine.
"I think you know as well as I do that manners are almost always insincere," Light said, quietly, sardonically. "The purpose for manners isn't to be sincere - it's a means of smoothing out human interactions. Courteous phrases like 'please' and 'thank you' and the like are hardly ever said in honest good will, and I'm sure you know that. You're just trying to palm off being a manner-less bastard as being honest and genuine. I can tell you're really just a tactless prick that can't be bothered with courtesy or civility."
"How very cynical of you."
A hand curled over his hip, tentatively clasping where it had gripped in unrestrained fervor the night before, its touch a silent question - but Light had no attention to give it because at that moment his eye had caught the sight of a clock on the wall.
Damn it. Ryuzaki had distracted him again. He was proving unusually good at that.
"I need to go," Light said, not moving. Ryuzaki's hand didn't move either, didn't slide down his thigh distractingly, didn't lift off his body obligingly - just waited. "I have a class in thirty minutes, and I need to change my clothes." And still they didn't move.
Light knew that the pose they were standing in - Ryuzaki pressed against his back, Light's own hand blindly stroking Ryuzaki's neck, both sharing gentle, comparatively innocent caresses - would seem to an outside perspective to be oddly familiar and tender for two strangers who'd simply shared a night of casual sex.
But that was from an outside perspective.
Light - and, he felt, Ryuzaki - knew this fabrication of intimacy was just another game between them, an illusion and a mockery of a lie, a caricature of affection while really a nod of twisted recognition to what they truly were: strangers caught in the start of a game, the beginnings of two paths.
Because this, he realized, was a forked-road moment, a time when the path before their feet split into different potentials. And before they went any farther, they needed to decide which trail to take.
On one side, a clearing: familiar and predictable, easy to see the outcome ahead. They could take this turning and both continue their lives as though the past twelve hours - past week, really - hadn't happened, only recalled in the vague memory of a single night with a stranger who knew the game, who could handle the willful pull of the intoxication, could consume and in turn be consumed. They'd share a significant glance of that was fun, thanks and Light would walk out the door, finish his etching and move on with his life, as Ryuzaki moved on with his.
And that would be fine. Light didn't need to pursue anything with Ryuzaki - wouldn't get anything but at most a few weeks (probably less) of interesting sex that could easily be found from other sources. Light didn't need to be in any sort of relationship, after all, and whenever he did feel the desire for sex, potential boyfriends were never hard to find. It was just fucking; he was fine letting the memory of last night fade into obscurity.
But he didn't want it to quite yet.
Because the other path was a twisting, unknown trail of possibility and potential and unexplored pleasure and excitement, and why not take it?
It could be like any other relationship of Light's - perhaps a little more interesting than the rest - staving off boredom for a while until the sex gradually lost its appeal and fire, eventually evaporating into inevitable mundaneness - and at that point he and Ryuzaki would split their lives again, having let their chemistry run its course.
He felt sure this uncertain trail would eventually join back up with his usual clearing path anyway - just a minor, interesting detour that promised challenge and sex and an interesting companion, if only for a short while more. He saw no reason to let this potential pass by without taking advantage of it, no reason to ignore the chemistry while it was still there.
Hopefully Ryuzaki felt the same. If not, Light felt sure he could be persuaded - and if he couldn't be persuaded, subtle manipulation wasn't out of the question.
But the teasing hand at his hip told him he had nothing to worry about.
So Light let his arm drop from Ryuzaki's neck and twisted around in Ryuzaki's hold until they were almost nose-to-nose, heads tilted, eyes caught and intentions slowly slipping out. Along the way his sketchbook had been set on the couch to wait a little while longer, his arms now free to slide like snakes along Ryuzaki's frame, one mischievously up his back and one grasping down the side of his denim-covered leg.
He was throwing down a challenge, and if Ryuzaki couldn't pick it up he wasn't worth Light's time anyway. All it would take was one sentence, an admittance that he wanted to see Light again, take the twisting path, and then whatever it was they had found in the each other's eyes and each other's foreign embrace could continue a little while longer.
"You're a childish bastard, Ryuzaki," he said casually, his mouth a breath away from the other's, his body a heartbeat apart. It was a statement of superficial words and masked meaning, hiding what he was truly saying on a level deeper than the veneer of literal speech.
You get under my skin.
And Ryuzaki's eyes focused - deep and piercing as he instantly caught on to Light's pace.
"That may be so," he said. "But it sounds rather hypocritical coming from you, Light-kun, who is likely just as childish and is an arrogant prick on top of that."
You get under mine, his dark eyes replied.
Light slid a thumb up along Ryuzaki's side, his fingers spreading across his back, the white shirt bunching slightly beneath as it clung to his fingers and lifted a teasing inch higher.
"You served me coffee in a teacup to purposely provoke me," Light countered.
I'll challenge you. I'll addict you.
"I did. Merely because you did the reverse to me, for identical reasons."
I can overcome you. I can consume you.
A sly, lazily lidded glance. "I really don't like you, you know."
Bloodlessly pale hands spidering up his sides, pulling his body closer.
"I don't like you either, Light-kun."
Two pairs of deadlocked eyes, two tethered wills in a matched battle where words were superfluous, the only substantial exchange held beneath the surface of the scene - a tension kept under lock but slipping out the seams.
Say it, a flicker of warm brown eyes demanded, the color of unground coffee beans.
Say what? a gleam of black ice returned, impassable and intense and with just a hint of impish joy.
They stared at each other, neither willing to concede, neither willing to bring the true dialogue, the question, the which path from here? out into the open first; neither willing to capitulate and speak and give in and it was fun, just say it Ryuzaki, stubborn bastard, you know you want this too.
Ryuzaki's lips parted, inches away from his own. Light could see the beginnings of a word on his tongue, the beginnings of surrender which would declare Light the victor of this particular scrimmage.
Say it, Ryuzaki. Say you want to see me again.
Or Light would walk out and it would be over, because he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to say the compromising words which would take them down the twisting, uncertain path - the verbal admittance that they had something he wanted to continue, a spoken this doesn't have to end quite yet.
But Ryuzaki's mouth was staying silent, his blacker-than-pitch eyes speaking volumes of I know what you're after, and I won't let you win, I won't say it, and the teasing intensity of I can take you on was beginning to catch Light's breath in his throat and make his blood run as if the devil was after it and pull an unwilling smirk onto his face.
And Light suddenly didn't know if he wanted Ryuzaki to speak and say the words or not anymore, because that would be too easy, too simple and no fun at all, he was realizing, like a bolt of lightning to the spine. In every other relationship he had ever been part of it was the other guy who folded, the other guy who spoke and asked first, from the stuttering I think I really like you, Yagami-kun of his very first boyfriend, who was young and innocent and questioning his sexuality with a please don't kill me thrown in at the end, to the You broke up with your boyfriend? Let's fuck, babe of Mello's classless excuse for a carefree pick-up.
And Light found he didn't quite know what to do with himself in this situation - where someone was willing to play this game of challenges and feints and your move, Light-kun with him, the game of taunting seduction and hidden intentions, refusing to back down or bend to Light's will as they explored the lust of heartless sex.
So he waited, his breath stilled and his adrenaline spiking, for Ryuzaki to further the game.
Your move, Ryuzaki.
And Ryuzaki played his next pawn.
Slowly, without removing his eyes from Light's, he slithered a deliberate hand into the back pocket of Light's jeans; Light didn't move, didn't flinch, and the other man delicately withdrew Light's sleek little phone from its hiding place. Then behind Light's head, with Ryuzaki's arms resting on Light's shoulders, two fingers pinched the phone in the air as another bony digit punched in a number to be stored in electronic memory and to be called later, neither man speaking and breaking the eye lock and losing the game.
Then the phone was slipped back in his pocket with conscientious care and given a gentle, mockingly considerate pat.
And-
Your move, Light-kun.
And god, Ryuzaki was a sneaky little bastard, pushing the game into Light's court, giving Light his number without words and with the implication that Light would be the one to call, the implication he wanted to see Light again but not the concession of saying the damn words themselves - winning the game (for now) by evading the challenge all together. And Light was going to strangle him and kiss him and grin in delighted anticipation for where this game could go, and he was going to fuck him and overwhelm him and dig into his brain and draw his damn face, because this was how the game was played, however inconsequential a game it might be.
And if only for a while, Ryuzaki was going to be a fucking fascinating opponent.
So Light said his, "Thanks, it was fun," with a nip of a farewell kiss, and their eyes agreed but this isn't over yet.
Then his sketchbook was retrieved and his shoes put on and he was out the door, a smirk on his mouth and a new path at his feet.
Your move, Light-kun.
Chapter 6b
Summary: It was a brief fling that lasted much longer than it was supposed to. One a student and part-time forensic artist, the other the greatest detective in the world. When it ended, both were sure they'd never meet again. But fate had other plans. AU.
Pairing: L/Light
Rating: R
Chapter 5
Chapter Six
Mornings and Decisions
It was odd, waking with someone next to him. L couldn't remember the last time he'd shared a bed with another body. He wasn't sure he ever had.
At the orphanage, when a child, he'd always had his own room, as Wammy House was large and genius orphans were few. Of his life before, he had no memory and therefore no way of knowing what his sleeping accommodations had been for the first four years of his existence. And as an adult, whenever he indulged in sexual relations, he either kicked the other person out after the act was completed, seeing no need to be polite once his needs were satisfied, or they left themselves - as they had the discrimination to perceive he didn't want them there anymore and lacked the arrogance to stay anyway.
Unlike certain other people, who, with a lazy smirk like a contented cat, said, "That was fun," then curled up in a ball and promptly fell asleep on other people's beds. L was unaccustomed to such arrogance from his sexual partners. Yet he had found himself, for the most part, unbothered by it.
It was cavalier, egotistical behavior - either assuming he was welcome to stay in L's bed or not caring enough to leave if he wasn't (L guessed the latter was closer to the other man's thought process) - yet when Light did it he made seem like he was doing L a favor, rather than encroaching on his hospitality. But at the same time, L felt sure Light had done it with the explicit purpose of irritating him.
And he found it terribly interesting.
Just like Light himself. Light was interesting. Sex with Light was interesting. Conversation with Light had thus far been interesting. And trying to get under Light's skin, irritate him and break his composure, return a snide remark for each barbed retort, was certainly very interesting and much more fun than it should have been.
Speaking of which, L had a bit of revenge to exact for a certain tea-filled coffee mug from yesterday evening. It was petty and immature, yes, but L had never denied he possessed either of those traits.
So, with a glance at Light's face beside him, which was tucked halfway beneath the cover and still caught in that peaceful suspension of sleep which made devils appear to be angels and gave youth to the aged and weary (and, apparently, made flawless Greek statues out of Light-kuns), L slipped covertly from under the blankets and half-tiptoed, half-shuffled out of the bedroom.
A clock in the sitting room obligingly informed him of the time, which was a little after seven o'clock. A Friday morning, with birds talking over each other outside the windows; L wondered if Light had classes today, and he marveled at the irresponsibility of college students who indulged in sexual acts on a night before they had school.
It would be a pity if Light were to be late for a class, as that was probable to make him annoyed, which annoyance would most likely be unreasonably directed at L.
L was, perhaps, a little too pleased by that prospect.
But such matters could be taken care of later. At the moment, L was more concerned with locating Watari and arranging for some breakfast. And what sort of host would he be if he didn't provide something for his guest? With such pure intentions in mind, L spotted his cell phone waiting obediently on the coffee table and pinched it up, swiftly pecking in Watari's number.
Usually, by this time of the morning, Watari would already have returned from wherever he'd spent the night while L released sexual tension, often with breakfast and morning tea in hand. Today, however, there was no Watari (or breakfast pastries) in sight.
It was easy to deduce what had happened. Watari had no doubt returned while L and Light were still wrapped in sleep, seen the extra pair of shoes remaining by the door and concluded Light was still present in the suite, so had likely left quietly, in his typical calm and unruffled manner, waiting just a phone call away until his services were needed. Watari could always be counted on to act in greatest propriety and efficacy.
He was a loyal, resourceful soul; whether serving the perfect cup of tea (in a teacup, as it was meant to be served) or sniping a dangerous criminal from the unsteady support of a helicopter, he had been at L's side, discreetly and competently attending to his needs. And for thanks he got to put up with L and his three nosy successors bickering day in and day out. L sometimes wondered if Watari was an occupational masochist, as he certainly didn't understand where his job satisfaction could come from when babysitting four temperamental geniuses.
Against L's ear, two subdued rings finished sounding out, followed summarily by a courteous voice.
"Ryuzaki."
"Watari," L returned pleasantly. "Is breakfast prepared?" he asked in English, as was his custom when speaking exclusively with his faithful sidekick.
"For the most part, sir. I have prepared you a tray of your favorite pastries today, in the French manner. However, I was unsure what your guest would prefer, as I doubt he shares your unusual tastes in sustenance, so I prepared a variety of traditional Japanese and western breakfast choices from which he can choose."
There was no indelicate hesitation before the word 'guest', just as befitted a butler-like figure such as Watari. L, in a vague sort of way, appreciated this. Not that he really would have cared; but Watari's opinion was one he had always valued a little more than others', so he was glad he had never shown any blatant disapproval of L's manner of releasing sexual frustration. Watari, after all, was from a more traditional generation and, despite his considerable tolerance towards L and company's exploits, was more likely to frown upon casual, one-night relationships.
Yet he never did, and L was glad.
"Thank you, Watari," he replied, exercising his oft-absent manners. "I'm sure Light-kun will be pleased. Do you have coffee prepared? I happen to know he is quite fond of coffee."
"Yes sir, I have a pot ready."
"Excellent," L said in satisfaction, perhaps a little more satisfaction than was strictly necessary. "Also, I believe Light-kun is rather peculiarly particular about how his coffee is served and will only drink it from a teacup, so would you be sure to accommodate him in this?"
This request was followed by a rather eloquent silence, one which informed L that Watari saw straight through his innocent words and directly to his mischievous intent, but he had no intention to involve himself or even understand what L could possibly gain from his inexplicable desire to serve his guest's coffee in a teacup.
"Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?"
"That will be all."
"Very good. I shall be there shortly."
L clicked off before Watari could, never having understood a reason to waste time with unnecessary words of farewell.
He wasn't entirely sure where Watari had gone to prepare this varied and probably lavish breakfast; L rather suspected he had politely hijacked the hotel's kitchen, though he was resourceful enough that there were at least a dozen different means by which he, with infallible ease, could have ensured L's breakfast was prepared on time. But L hardly ever concerned himself with how Watari fulfilled his duties, which was itself a sign of how capable butleresque man was - L didn't have to worry about it. If L didn't know better, he might have wondered if Watari was truly human and not a product of advanced human-aid robotics.
L replaced his phone and glanced around the room, bathed in the pale, washed-out light of morning, and listened as there was a sudden rush of noisy, pipe-carried water through the walls.
Ah. Light was awake - and apparently taking advantage of L's shower.
This was fortuitous.
And a little arrogant of Light, to high-handedly take it for granted that he was welcome to L's shower, as he was his bed. But L, as mentioned before, was coming to learn that arrogance came as naturally to Light as breathing, though it was covered in an intoxicating haze of charm that many people likely failed to see through. L wasn't so blinded.
But neither was he repulsed by the arrogance, surprisingly. It was…refreshing, in a way. Interesting, despite the ways it could potentially clash with his own admitted ego.
And if it resulted in a wet, naked Light-kun in his shower, L was all for it.
He took another look at the helpful clock from earlier and discovered it was twenty-two minutes past seven o'clock. Watari would probably arrive with breakfast within three minutes, give or take about forty seconds. Light's food would most likely be cooled within twenty minutes (he didn't need to worry about the pastries cooling, as they were served at room-temperature), considerably more if Watari left a warming cover over it (ninety-seven percent chance of this happening); the coffee would be unpleasantly bitter (the sort of bitterness that couldn't even be smothered out with sugar) within forty-seven minutes.
Plenty of time for shower sex.
And there was no reason not to take advantage of Light's continued presence in the hotel - after a week of obsessive research and almost exclusively Light-centered thoughts, L thought it rather silly to have assumed he would have been satisfied with one night. Light was obviously meant to be a fine delicacy of a cake, deserving to be spread out, savored and unhurriedly consumed - as opposed to say, a low-quality chocolate bar, which, while tasty and full of the necessary sugar to make something edible, in truth only required a few quick chomps to get the full possible enjoyment (not unlike the majority of L's sexual partners).
Yes, Light was a cake. A superior red velvet cake, perhaps: eye-catching, exotic, smooth and beguiling with a subtle hint of chocolaty taste that nevertheless addicted the tongue and made lesser cakes pale in comparison. Or maybe a chiffon cake: light and airy with a sophisticated appeal.
No, neither of those were quite right. Red velvet was too garish, chiffon too common and lacking in substance. Light was a cake both elegant and distinctive, light yet complex, savory and subtly addictive without overpowering the senses with richness - maybe with a dash of liquor to account for the intoxicating influence his presence gave.
Perhaps a tiramisu? That could be fitting. The coffee-soaked savoiardi and sprinkled cocoa powder supplied a bitter contrast to the sweet egg and mascarpone mixture, giving it a complexity and balance between two paradoxical extremes, and the frequent addition of a dark rum or sweet Marsala wine was appropriate.
L would have to give this some more thought. Perhaps if he tried eating a variety of cakes directly off of Light, he would be able to find a more suitable comparison. And if this happened to lead to sexual relations, L certainly wouldn't complain.
But the time for that was later. At the moment, Light's shower time was swiftly slipping away, and it would be an unconscionable shame to allow this opportunity to run by ungrasped. Wet, naked Light-kuns did not usurp his shower every day, after all.
And L was nothing if not opportunistic. If the next time Light strolled out the door of L's suite was the last time L saw him, then he intended to make the most of the time he was still confined within its walls. It was the only rational thing to do, really, when presented with someone as attention-snaring as Light.
Because L wanted a little more. He wanted another taste, at least another bite of cake before he let Light run off. And he was surprised by the extent to which he didn't want Light to run off quite yet.
It was unusual, and when something was unusual L felt it his duty, as L, to dig into the matter and satisfy all curiosity.
Light had been interesting; Light was still interesting after a night of sex, and to put it in very juvenile terms, L wasn't quite done playing with him yet - and he only had a little time left to convince Light that he should feel the same.
The game wasn't over yet.
So with such conscientious thoughts in mind, L pushed all thought of cake analogies aside for the moment and shambled happily towards the shower, where a slice of Light-kun was waiting.
Light had not been surprised when he felt Ryuzaki slip into the shower behind him.
Nor had he been surprised by the sneaky, wandering hands that slipped around his soaped-up torso, making no pretence of their lascivious intentions as strands of black hair tickled at his shoulders and neck.
He wasn't surprised by the way teasing touches turned bolder and more deliberate, or by the way his body began burning in interest as he relaxed into the hands.
He wasn't surprised that washing became less and less interesting; he wasn't surprised when the soap slipped forgotten to floor, sudsy water swirling friendlily around it and two pairs of dripping feet.
He wasn't at all surprised at the wasted water and time, and certainly not by the consequential need for another rinse, a little while later.
Then, when both were dried and clothed (Light unfortunately having little choice but to don his wrinkled, day-old outfit) and a little less horny, he wasn't surprised by the opulent, varied breakfast spread he found waiting them in the kitchen, warm and reviving and enticing - aside from the death plates of sugar likely intended for Ryuzaki, of course. Those, unsurprisingly, seemed gritty, suffocating in sugar, and enough to make his teeth ache just looking at them.
Light was, however, surprised when he saw the mocking, coffee-filled teacup smirking up at him near a plate of the teeth-hating pastries, though he recognized immediately that he really ought to have expected it. This was undoubtedly Ryuzaki's doing.
An innocent glance and casual "Is the coffee not prepared to your liking, Light-kun?" thrown his way by Ryuzaki confirmed this, reminded him of the exasperating, fascinating nature and spark of electrically charged rivalry that had so intrigued him last night and made their fucking so intensely interesting - so he accordingly wasn't surprised when, a few minutes and increasingly juvenile comments later, they were shoving each other onto the breakfast table and trying to eat each other's face off, almost knocking over a still-warm cup (goddamn teacup) of coffee and several other carefully prepared dishes, both aware that they were unlikely to get hard again that soon but sure as hell going to do what they could in the meantime.
And a meantime later, after breakfast and an attempt to straighten his considerably-more-wrinkled-than-before clothing, which still weren't anywhere near the natural state of Ryuzaki's perpetually disheveled clothes, Light realized that if he didn't want to be stuck in his unpresentable clothes for the rest of the day, he'd need to be leaving within the next fifteen minutes or he'd run out of time.
So, after another coffee-laced kiss and a "I need to get going," he tracked down his sketchbook in the sitting room, Ryuzaki meandering along behind to pause in the doorway, and he was unfortunately unsurprised one last time - this time by the quality of the final sketch contained within.
"This is shit."
And it was. But what else had he honestly expected when he'd allowed himself to be distracted the entire time he was drawing it, eventually abandoning it completely in favor of fucking with the face's owner? That was not the sort of situation conducive to artistic success.
But he didn't regret it. And he didn't regret breaking his usual 'no one-night-stand' policy that had stuck with him throughout his sex life. He'd been right, as he always: Ryuzaki had been a fascinating fuck, one who knew how to play the game and wasn't afraid to challenge Light, with clever hands and a forceful gaze and a will to match his own.
"Maybe it can be salvaged," Light said, speaking of the unpromising sketch in his hands without much enthusiasm. It didn't really matter, he supposed. Sleeping with Ryuzaki had been a diamond mine of new perspective, and Light felt confident that with this new information he would be able to finally pin down that damn convoluted, paradoxical essence. The night had been a success, in more ways than one.
Fucking was an excellent means of insight on a character, much better than just sitting around looking at a person.
"In any case," Light continued airily, "I don't think it would accomplish anything to try doing it live again. I don't think it's a problem with memory - it's a problem with your face. I'll just have to keep working on it."
Ryuzaki, who had wandered closer as Light examined his work, poked his head curiously over his shoulder, black eyes roving over the page.
"There is nothing wrong with my face. And you're too harsh, Light-kun. It is actually a quite skilled drawing."
"Ryuzaki, I have no doubt that even you, who I suspect to be more artistically unintelligent than the majority of the population, can tell this drawing is missing something. And since your face has thus far refused to be drawn, I would call that something wrong with it."
Light felt Ryuzaki's body get even closer to his back - but never touching, their clothes only barely brushing.
And the distraction of Ryuzaki's sudden presence behind him was unavoidable - a constant warmth spreading across his back, a quiet note of understated tension. It was the first word of another conversation, spoken with their bodies and unheeding of what their mouths were saying.
"It is immature to blame your difficulties on my face, when it is clearly never the subject's fault in artistic matters such as this," Ryuzaki returned evenly, quietly, and without hesitation, his breath tickling the back of Light's neck and sending flickers of awareness up and down his spine. "Also," he murmured, a little sulkily, "I would never call myself unintelligent in any aspect of life. Less experienced, perhaps, about things that don't matter, but never unintelligent."
Light didn't bother glancing back at him to see the pouting frown pulling down his lips, having seen it enough by now to imagine it quite well without doing so. Instead, he kept his head forward and his voice causal, his body hyperaware of the presence behind him, his mind annoyed by the childish argument despite this.
"That," he said decisively, "is because you clearly have an ego the size of one of the Wonders of the World and would probably never say anything that would make yourself look stupid, however true it might be."
A hesitant finger, softer than a child's kiss, brushed along the curved shell of Light's ear, setting off an explosion of tiny shivers throughout the nerve endings in the back of his neck and dropping all the way down his spine - at odds with the blunt, unemotional words that came with the timid touch.
"It's very interesting how quickly your façade of civility drops after sex, Light-kun."
That ass.
However, Light let his body relax into Ryuzaki's, his back meeting the solid warmth of Ryuzaki's chest. He reached a casual arm back over his shoulder, comfortably hooking it around to palm the side of Ryuzaki's head. His fingers began to slip through black hair like they would a deck of cards, stroking with light tugs and almost absentminded allurement.
"And it's interesting how you seem to think sex gives you the right to call my good manners a façade," he said carelessly, "especially considering you have absolutely none to speak of."
Ryuzaki's head dipped down and forward just a bit, almost as if he was nuzzling into Light's hand, giving Light the incongruous feeling he was stroking the head of a particularly friendly dog. He immediately let his hand slide down to play along the side of Ryuzaki's neck instead, fingertips trailing with a feather's touch.
"I have good manners," Ryuzaki insisted, tilting his head now to brush his nose against the sensitive bump at the base of Light's neck; Light could feel his breath ghost across his skin. "I merely see no logical reason to falsely employ it, as certain other people frequently do," he added, speaking softly into Light's spine.
"I think you know as well as I do that manners are almost always insincere," Light said, quietly, sardonically. "The purpose for manners isn't to be sincere - it's a means of smoothing out human interactions. Courteous phrases like 'please' and 'thank you' and the like are hardly ever said in honest good will, and I'm sure you know that. You're just trying to palm off being a manner-less bastard as being honest and genuine. I can tell you're really just a tactless prick that can't be bothered with courtesy or civility."
"How very cynical of you."
A hand curled over his hip, tentatively clasping where it had gripped in unrestrained fervor the night before, its touch a silent question - but Light had no attention to give it because at that moment his eye had caught the sight of a clock on the wall.
Damn it. Ryuzaki had distracted him again. He was proving unusually good at that.
"I need to go," Light said, not moving. Ryuzaki's hand didn't move either, didn't slide down his thigh distractingly, didn't lift off his body obligingly - just waited. "I have a class in thirty minutes, and I need to change my clothes." And still they didn't move.
Light knew that the pose they were standing in - Ryuzaki pressed against his back, Light's own hand blindly stroking Ryuzaki's neck, both sharing gentle, comparatively innocent caresses - would seem to an outside perspective to be oddly familiar and tender for two strangers who'd simply shared a night of casual sex.
But that was from an outside perspective.
Light - and, he felt, Ryuzaki - knew this fabrication of intimacy was just another game between them, an illusion and a mockery of a lie, a caricature of affection while really a nod of twisted recognition to what they truly were: strangers caught in the start of a game, the beginnings of two paths.
Because this, he realized, was a forked-road moment, a time when the path before their feet split into different potentials. And before they went any farther, they needed to decide which trail to take.
On one side, a clearing: familiar and predictable, easy to see the outcome ahead. They could take this turning and both continue their lives as though the past twelve hours - past week, really - hadn't happened, only recalled in the vague memory of a single night with a stranger who knew the game, who could handle the willful pull of the intoxication, could consume and in turn be consumed. They'd share a significant glance of that was fun, thanks and Light would walk out the door, finish his etching and move on with his life, as Ryuzaki moved on with his.
And that would be fine. Light didn't need to pursue anything with Ryuzaki - wouldn't get anything but at most a few weeks (probably less) of interesting sex that could easily be found from other sources. Light didn't need to be in any sort of relationship, after all, and whenever he did feel the desire for sex, potential boyfriends were never hard to find. It was just fucking; he was fine letting the memory of last night fade into obscurity.
But he didn't want it to quite yet.
Because the other path was a twisting, unknown trail of possibility and potential and unexplored pleasure and excitement, and why not take it?
It could be like any other relationship of Light's - perhaps a little more interesting than the rest - staving off boredom for a while until the sex gradually lost its appeal and fire, eventually evaporating into inevitable mundaneness - and at that point he and Ryuzaki would split their lives again, having let their chemistry run its course.
He felt sure this uncertain trail would eventually join back up with his usual clearing path anyway - just a minor, interesting detour that promised challenge and sex and an interesting companion, if only for a short while more. He saw no reason to let this potential pass by without taking advantage of it, no reason to ignore the chemistry while it was still there.
Hopefully Ryuzaki felt the same. If not, Light felt sure he could be persuaded - and if he couldn't be persuaded, subtle manipulation wasn't out of the question.
But the teasing hand at his hip told him he had nothing to worry about.
So Light let his arm drop from Ryuzaki's neck and twisted around in Ryuzaki's hold until they were almost nose-to-nose, heads tilted, eyes caught and intentions slowly slipping out. Along the way his sketchbook had been set on the couch to wait a little while longer, his arms now free to slide like snakes along Ryuzaki's frame, one mischievously up his back and one grasping down the side of his denim-covered leg.
He was throwing down a challenge, and if Ryuzaki couldn't pick it up he wasn't worth Light's time anyway. All it would take was one sentence, an admittance that he wanted to see Light again, take the twisting path, and then whatever it was they had found in the each other's eyes and each other's foreign embrace could continue a little while longer.
"You're a childish bastard, Ryuzaki," he said casually, his mouth a breath away from the other's, his body a heartbeat apart. It was a statement of superficial words and masked meaning, hiding what he was truly saying on a level deeper than the veneer of literal speech.
You get under my skin.
And Ryuzaki's eyes focused - deep and piercing as he instantly caught on to Light's pace.
"That may be so," he said. "But it sounds rather hypocritical coming from you, Light-kun, who is likely just as childish and is an arrogant prick on top of that."
You get under mine, his dark eyes replied.
Light slid a thumb up along Ryuzaki's side, his fingers spreading across his back, the white shirt bunching slightly beneath as it clung to his fingers and lifted a teasing inch higher.
"You served me coffee in a teacup to purposely provoke me," Light countered.
I'll challenge you. I'll addict you.
"I did. Merely because you did the reverse to me, for identical reasons."
I can overcome you. I can consume you.
A sly, lazily lidded glance. "I really don't like you, you know."
Bloodlessly pale hands spidering up his sides, pulling his body closer.
"I don't like you either, Light-kun."
Two pairs of deadlocked eyes, two tethered wills in a matched battle where words were superfluous, the only substantial exchange held beneath the surface of the scene - a tension kept under lock but slipping out the seams.
Say it, a flicker of warm brown eyes demanded, the color of unground coffee beans.
Say what? a gleam of black ice returned, impassable and intense and with just a hint of impish joy.
They stared at each other, neither willing to concede, neither willing to bring the true dialogue, the question, the which path from here? out into the open first; neither willing to capitulate and speak and give in and it was fun, just say it Ryuzaki, stubborn bastard, you know you want this too.
Ryuzaki's lips parted, inches away from his own. Light could see the beginnings of a word on his tongue, the beginnings of surrender which would declare Light the victor of this particular scrimmage.
Say it, Ryuzaki. Say you want to see me again.
Or Light would walk out and it would be over, because he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to say the compromising words which would take them down the twisting, uncertain path - the verbal admittance that they had something he wanted to continue, a spoken this doesn't have to end quite yet.
But Ryuzaki's mouth was staying silent, his blacker-than-pitch eyes speaking volumes of I know what you're after, and I won't let you win, I won't say it, and the teasing intensity of I can take you on was beginning to catch Light's breath in his throat and make his blood run as if the devil was after it and pull an unwilling smirk onto his face.
And Light suddenly didn't know if he wanted Ryuzaki to speak and say the words or not anymore, because that would be too easy, too simple and no fun at all, he was realizing, like a bolt of lightning to the spine. In every other relationship he had ever been part of it was the other guy who folded, the other guy who spoke and asked first, from the stuttering I think I really like you, Yagami-kun of his very first boyfriend, who was young and innocent and questioning his sexuality with a please don't kill me thrown in at the end, to the You broke up with your boyfriend? Let's fuck, babe of Mello's classless excuse for a carefree pick-up.
And Light found he didn't quite know what to do with himself in this situation - where someone was willing to play this game of challenges and feints and your move, Light-kun with him, the game of taunting seduction and hidden intentions, refusing to back down or bend to Light's will as they explored the lust of heartless sex.
So he waited, his breath stilled and his adrenaline spiking, for Ryuzaki to further the game.
Your move, Ryuzaki.
And Ryuzaki played his next pawn.
Slowly, without removing his eyes from Light's, he slithered a deliberate hand into the back pocket of Light's jeans; Light didn't move, didn't flinch, and the other man delicately withdrew Light's sleek little phone from its hiding place. Then behind Light's head, with Ryuzaki's arms resting on Light's shoulders, two fingers pinched the phone in the air as another bony digit punched in a number to be stored in electronic memory and to be called later, neither man speaking and breaking the eye lock and losing the game.
Then the phone was slipped back in his pocket with conscientious care and given a gentle, mockingly considerate pat.
And-
Your move, Light-kun.
And god, Ryuzaki was a sneaky little bastard, pushing the game into Light's court, giving Light his number without words and with the implication that Light would be the one to call, the implication he wanted to see Light again but not the concession of saying the damn words themselves - winning the game (for now) by evading the challenge all together. And Light was going to strangle him and kiss him and grin in delighted anticipation for where this game could go, and he was going to fuck him and overwhelm him and dig into his brain and draw his damn face, because this was how the game was played, however inconsequential a game it might be.
And if only for a while, Ryuzaki was going to be a fucking fascinating opponent.
So Light said his, "Thanks, it was fun," with a nip of a farewell kiss, and their eyes agreed but this isn't over yet.
Then his sketchbook was retrieved and his shoes put on and he was out the door, a smirk on his mouth and a new path at his feet.
Your move, Light-kun.
Chapter 6b