Mkay, I decided I need to set a goal on FF this summer. I haven't written anything in forever, and I still can't get close to a multi-chapter, COMPLETABLE story. I've come up with a lot of plot bunnies, most of which are Light-centric (because apparently I'm obsessed) and most of THOSE are LxLight. Unfortunately, all those "What if so and so happened...?" questions I ask myself never get answered so I can barely develop a story. So I've decided to write 'em all down as unresolved drabble-type things. My goal is one a week. They're just incomplete, angsty little ficlets, nothing to be tipsy about... but it's better than nothing, and I need to work on my commitment issues. (I heard you're more likely to do things when you write it down. Think that applies to typing?)

Please review and give feedback! I could use all the help I can get from you guys because I really just have no self-discipline. Once a week, just drabbles and I'm still not sure I can pull it off. -_-

Okay, here's the first one. It's sort of a follow-up to a rape!/tortured!Light fic. Any one of the hundreds out there. You've read one, don't lie. I haven't seen something like this yet I've always wondered how it would work out.

Pairing: LxLight

Warnings: Major angst, post-any traumatized Light fanfic. Mutilation, I guess.

(Posted June 19, 2010)

Edit: June 25, 2010 - A very small one, in the Author's Note embarrassingly enough. For some reason when I posted this last week, I thought it was 2008. Weird.

Let Down Your Hair

He'd been called vain and narcissistic many times in his life. Rarely to his face, of course. He was far too respectable to be openly insulted like that. In fact, the only person who ever blatantly insulted his concern for his own physical appearance was L.

But L hadn't been doing that lately. Light couldn't say for sure whether he was relieved or not. On one hand, L omitting one of the very foundations for their fights was a sure sign that things were not normal. On the other, if L brought up how egotistical Light was for obsessing over something so worthless at this point, Light wasn't sure if he could look in a mirror ever again.

And he needed to look into the mirror.

He needed to confront this, to stare at himself and not flinch. To examine himself, reassure himself that it was growing back.

And once it was completely back, things had to be normal. Whole. Everything would be okay.

He could feel a draft. Always there, almost mocking. It was there ever since…

When L found him – after days and days of searching, hacking, searching – in the dark room, all Light wanted to do was hide. He would (try to) scoff at the idea now. Why hide from the man that was saving him?

As it was, thanks to the chains that had held him in place and the lack of anything in that room save a dirty metal basin, L easily saw him. He had not recognized Light at first, bruised in all the wrong places, and a glowing crown of skin where beautiful brunette locks should have been.

The bruises were still there, faded from their once vibrant blotchy purple, but he barely noticed. All he saw, all he felt, was the old razor tickling the back of his neck, sliding against the skin around his ears, over his head, and the soap burning his eyes.

There was a brown fuzz now, evenly distributed. He looked good with an army cut. It was fine. But the sharp, icy feel of metal was still there. A hand, forcing him down. A voice, spiteful, gleeful. And the draft. The cold.

There was an awkward, tense feeling whenever he was reminded of the existence of alternatives. He didn't want to hide, and all he wanted to do was hide. The shame, and then the shame of feeling ashamed. And there was discomfort when his hats looked too big now, and his hoods seemed to reveal more than it shielded.

There was the mirror. The worst thing of all, and the most important. Light needed this mirror to tell him that nothing was there except for him. To remind him that there was light in this room, and all he had to do was open his eyes. And if he could look at himself, then they could as well. Just look. There was no razor, no wetness, no one but him in the light. And slowly but surely, it was growing back.

Whenever L saw him staring a bit too long, he wouldn't say anything except reminding him where he was supposed to be. "Watari is making pancakes for breakfast," he'd mutter if it was morning. Or if it was night, it would be something along the lines of "We had a long day today. Are you tired?"

And each time (not immediately after, sometimes not even within the same day), L would pull him in, catch his lips, would whisper, "You're beautiful."

Part of Light wanted to punch L every time. Ignore what was wrong with what was normal. Replace the cold feeling with superficial heat. Part of him wanted to rest there listening to L's heartbeat, listening to the words and dream of them. Light knew. He always knew. It'd been a long time, however, since he felt it.

He hated that he needed it.

KK: What's worse than traumatizing Yagami Light? Ruining his hair.

KK: I feel like there's something wrong in this little thing (besides the subject itself) but I don't have much more time and if I don't post it now I don't think I ever will. The Perfectionist in me is telling me not to post it until I really like it, but this is the same Perfectionist that kept me from writing anything real all year. So whatever. I'll probably come back and change it.

I'd really appreciate your feedback!