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asimaiyatTitle: "Unless We Realize That We're The Same"
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: L/Light (yay!)
Rating: PG -- mentions of murder; L isin-character a little creepy and stalkerish.
Summary: L can't wait until the investigation is over and he can close the book on Light once and for all. He's not in denial at all. Nope. No denial here.
AN: For a prompt fromteh_gabih; she wanted one based on "Ever Fallen In Love With Someone" by the Buzzcocks (and the really nice cover by Thea Gilmore). I'm not sure I quite wrote the prompt, though... it's about 500 words, btw.
All they ever do is watch each other. Wait, that's not true. They also pretend that they aren't watching each other, that there's some other point to the whole exercise, but there isn't. Light leans back in his government-issue computer chair and seems to relax, poring over meaningless numbers on the screen while letting his amber eyes flick back towards the detective's huge dark ones. L gives orders to the team, teases out increasingly detailed theories, but he doesn't even bother to hide the way his body language betrays his obsession with the boy, spine curling in his precise direction the way a plant bends toward the source of sunlight. Neither of them ever misses one of these gestures, but they never openly acknowledge them, either. It's just part of the game; the world's greatest high-stakes staring contest.
At night, Light falls into the profound sleep of the innocent, and L watches. It infuriates him, the way this murderer (because there's no question, it's always been 100% in his mind) can so shamelessly let go of the weight of his actions and indulge in the sort of mindless pleasure that ought to be the province of children. If L knows on some level of his brilliant mind that he could easily be describing his own behavior -- the stubborn insistence on holding onto the trappings of innocence, the inability to refuse himself his simple sugary pleasures -- he refuses to acknowledge the similarity even to himself.
Of course, he knows. He knows that his insight into Kira's state of mind is a natural result of the fact that he's never encountered anyone more like himself. He just chooses, right now, to focus on the rage and contempt that the sight before him (the sound of slow, peaceful breathing) stirs in him, and to ignore all the other feelings and questions that will mean nothing in a matter of weeks or months, maybe just days, as soon as he has the proof he needs. Soon Light's unruffled confidence (his hair fallen across his smooth forehead, his eyelashes just barely fluttering) will trip him up, and the investigation will come to an end, and he will never have to look at Light Yagami (his mouth slightly open, breathing so quietly) again. Or think about him, or stay up at night watching and waiting and convincing himself that the two of them stand at opposite ends of a spectrum, two strangers who met on the battlefield and never shared more than a few pointed looks.
It is exactly 3:47 a.m. on a Saturday. Their room is high above Tokyo, above the commotion of the city at night. The only sounds in the room are two heartbeats (one quite a bit faster than the other) and two people breathing (one much shallower than the other), and even though the clock on the nightstand is digital (the dim red light reflecting off the boy's glossy hair) L can swear he hears the time ticking away.
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: L/Light (yay!)
Rating: PG -- mentions of murder; L is
Summary: L can't wait until the investigation is over and he can close the book on Light once and for all. He's not in denial at all. Nope. No denial here.
AN: For a prompt from
teh_gabih; she wanted one based on "Ever Fallen In Love With Someone" by the Buzzcocks (and the really nice cover by Thea Gilmore). I'm not sure I quite wrote the prompt, though... it's about 500 words, btw.All they ever do is watch each other. Wait, that's not true. They also pretend that they aren't watching each other, that there's some other point to the whole exercise, but there isn't. Light leans back in his government-issue computer chair and seems to relax, poring over meaningless numbers on the screen while letting his amber eyes flick back towards the detective's huge dark ones. L gives orders to the team, teases out increasingly detailed theories, but he doesn't even bother to hide the way his body language betrays his obsession with the boy, spine curling in his precise direction the way a plant bends toward the source of sunlight. Neither of them ever misses one of these gestures, but they never openly acknowledge them, either. It's just part of the game; the world's greatest high-stakes staring contest.
At night, Light falls into the profound sleep of the innocent, and L watches. It infuriates him, the way this murderer (because there's no question, it's always been 100% in his mind) can so shamelessly let go of the weight of his actions and indulge in the sort of mindless pleasure that ought to be the province of children. If L knows on some level of his brilliant mind that he could easily be describing his own behavior -- the stubborn insistence on holding onto the trappings of innocence, the inability to refuse himself his simple sugary pleasures -- he refuses to acknowledge the similarity even to himself.
Of course, he knows. He knows that his insight into Kira's state of mind is a natural result of the fact that he's never encountered anyone more like himself. He just chooses, right now, to focus on the rage and contempt that the sight before him (the sound of slow, peaceful breathing) stirs in him, and to ignore all the other feelings and questions that will mean nothing in a matter of weeks or months, maybe just days, as soon as he has the proof he needs. Soon Light's unruffled confidence (his hair fallen across his smooth forehead, his eyelashes just barely fluttering) will trip him up, and the investigation will come to an end, and he will never have to look at Light Yagami (his mouth slightly open, breathing so quietly) again. Or think about him, or stay up at night watching and waiting and convincing himself that the two of them stand at opposite ends of a spectrum, two strangers who met on the battlefield and never shared more than a few pointed looks.
It is exactly 3:47 a.m. on a Saturday. Their room is high above Tokyo, above the commotion of the city at night. The only sounds in the room are two heartbeats (one quite a bit faster than the other) and two people breathing (one much shallower than the other), and even though the clock on the nightstand is digital (the dim red light reflecting off the boy's glossy hair) L can swear he hears the time ticking away.