Butterfly Caught

Hi, I am retroelectric, this is my pilot fanfic of Death Note. I wrote this without pants and I don't own Death Note thank you very much.

Beta read by Nilahxapiel.

Summary: Beyond Birthday is the type of man that should never be let out alive in the first place. He sees death around him so much that when it is his turn to kill, he does so unflinchingly. When he meets Yagami Light, he's the prettiest thing he'd seen in years, and he wants to fuck him and carve his body up because he's so perfect it's a sin.

Warning: AU, lots of the usage of 'fuck', Yaoi, violent themes.

Beyond Birthday knew exactly the meaning of beyond boredom.

He had been a patient at a mental hospital for so long, strapped up in a solitary ward all alone with nothing to do other than tug and squirm at the strong cloth restraints that pinned his arms and legs, which tied his limbs down to the metal frame. At one point in time, Beyond had been muzzled and strait-jacketed like Hannibal-fucking-Lecter for six months when he had actually bit down and severed a nurse's finger, then spat out that digit because it tasted so foul he wanted to vomit. He'd laughed at the woman and yelled out that she would still live, which was true, before he was forced to shut up with a gag. There had been another time, when he had done one of his experiments –attempting to find the durability of the human body, and punched one of the hospital staff on the back of his head in quick blows until the young man passed out.

Beyond knew that his willingness to do these things made him a strong, dangerous man.

And he couldn't help but think to himself how he was just letting himself be restrained at this hospital. He could get out anytime he wanted to.

He knew that if one stabbed a particular artery of the neck, it could be fatal or possibly render a person incapacitated in a coma the rest of their life. The doctors had deduced that Beyond would be far safer in the hospital than outside, because he had a potential to be criminal insane, rather than just...well, insane.

When he told gleefully of his 'findings' to a psychiatrist during an interview session, he had been left alone immediately and saw the man on the other side of the glass wall lose his cool, calling him a 'fucking nutcase that should have been put to death as a child'. Now that he thought of it, B thought, he wished they had actually done the Kevorkian thing and ended him right there. B wasn't suicidal, but it got to the point where he preferred to just fucking die instead of suffer from the fucking boredom of being strapped and joined to wires and IV drips that didn't help his situation at all. B wasn't getting cured of his so-called mental instability and doubted he ever would.

Beyond Birthday hadn't killed anyone, yet.

He was a genius, but he's had a strange affliction since birth. He could see every single human being's names and the dates they would die right above their head. That meant he saw death everywhere, something he had understood that by the time he was five. He saw the woman and man he vaguely recalled as his parents leave him alone at home with an odd number hanging above their heads, changed in a way that he certainly hadn't recalled seeing before, arranged in a manner which didn't make any sense. 9878231 in a group, 27 and 8 in another group below it. Social Services took him the day after, and told that his parents were no more, dead, deceased due to a car accident-and that was when the wheels clicked into place in his genius little mind. 9878231 and 27 and 8 – 23/7/1988, 7/23/1988, 23rd of July 1988, 8.27 pm. Those numbers had been the date and time they died. The five-year-old Beyond shook, trembled and cried for days and people thought he was in mourning, but he had just been shocked to near-death at that realisation. After their funeral, B never cried again.

It was easy to say he was driven a little mad by it, but he couldn't help it. It was the condition he was cursed into. The person called Beyond Birthday couldn't grow up normal even as his brain eerily swallowed up information and facts from books. He flipped through five-hundred-page books and absorbed the story, sucking them in the manner of a vampire. He looked around at people's behavioural patterns and understood them because it was humanly predictable, but he didn't care for them. He had been sent to Wammy's House, an institution for bright children like him to be trained in studies that impressed his mentors. Despite his great progress in studies, he had to be singled out because of his odd behaviour. He kept on staring off into space, telling people just when they were going to die, making them get angry at him.

Human beings were not meant to be born with shinigami's eyes, and to know when people died was so vulgar that B as a child was completely repulsed at himself, at his own eyes and even once felt like digging them out. Except that these eyes were an asset and vital to him. Logically, eyes and the sense of sight were important.

At the age of sixteen, Beyond had escaped from Wammy's House, because the demons in his head told him to.

In all his travels, he had ended up in Japan. He was caught and sent to the mental hospital at the age of twenty after a freak accident, involving him not stopping for red lights and bunch of dog carcasses found in the trunk of his car. They had tried him in court for 'drunk-driving' and animal cruelty, declared him certifiably insane and then locked him up in the dull white solitary ward for mental patients with constant supervision over him, finding no records of who he was.

This year marked the third anniversary of Beyond Birthday stuck in this mental ward.

It was getting boring and tiresome. B knew he had to escape the ward before he was driven even crazier seeing the white walls every single waking second, drugged to the point he could barely recall what he ate the night before on certain occasions. It was an insult. Beyond knew he was a genius. Certainly not crazy. He was just driven to be.

There was a security guard, a NPA officer who stood at the door, armed with a NANBU M60, a .38 calibre, non-automatic pistol which was just... appropriate, because this country didn't have laws which enabled people to possess firearms, and therefore, didn't require such powerful weapons. B hadn't used a gun before, but he knew very well how the mechanism worked-rather simple, effective and deadly, and he knew just where to shoot to kill. Left side of the chest into the heart, or straight into the skull in between the eyes. Shoot in the knees to make them fall to the ground, in the hand to stop them from doing anything unnecessary like flinging an object at the assailant's head. The policeman's firearm was always loaded with 6 bullets, no more no less, the worn leather holster to the side of the man's hip held securely by a button. The man never took it out to clean judging by the dull gleam.

He was visited hourly by a nurse who checked his vitals (blood pressure, heartbeat/pulse, glucose level, IV drip, lungs) gave his medication as required, and meals came approximately at 10.15 am, 2.38pm and 7.47pm. He was fed by the veteran nurse, a no-nonsense woman in her forties watched over by that same police officer with the gun so he didn't take any utensils to cut his way through the binds, hurt himself or other people.

In other news, he was treated very much like an unstable mental patient.

One day, Beyond decided he would take it into his own (bound) hands and get out of this place. He was so fucking sick of it. His plan was not a detailed one, but B decided he was smart enough for improvisation, damn his drugged state. He would undo the binds, wait for 7.47 pm when they force-fed him the last meal of the day and kill that matronly woman, disarm the police officer, steal his gun and change his clothes, pretend to be a civilian, and walk out.

Then Beyond would go to a hotel of some sort and wash himself clean, because he needed it. Maybe a good drink or two afterwards, fucked liver or not.

He went to sleep that night with a pleasant little grin on his face, gloating and laughing to himself till he was asked to shut the fuck up by that very same officer who's weapon would soon be in his grasp.

B woke up unpleasantly to his binds being undone, being tugged and tied down to the wheelchair, before being untied and undressed again and washed by these people. His eyes were dull to them as he moved his hand faster than they could catch, when they were turned away, taking the small pair of scissors from the nurse's pocket (which was their fault for forgetting that this was B) and swiftly sticking them into his mouth after his teeth were cleaned. Then he was dried and clothed, calmly trying not to care that the pair of small scissors were poking the back of his throat and the weird metallic taste on his tongue as he was transported safely back to his room and tied down again.

He spat the small scissors out and it landed near his stomach when he was left alone, the sharp instrument covered in drool as he inched it slowly and carefully to his fingers, finally managing to loop them around his thumb and forefinger after fifteen minutes of trying, grinning to himself when he reached and bent his hand around in a somewhat unnatural manner and began to cut away at the binds. Snip, snip, snip. He glanced up at the clock when his job was halfway done. 10.05 am.

He stopped, tucked the scissors under his back when the matron came in and fed him, and he even gave her an uncharacteristic happy grin like he enjoyed being treated like an invalid. The woman brushed it off with a stern stare, and left after he had done eating, and he quickly resumed his job, snip snipping away until 2.29 pm and hid the scissors away as he was fed again. Munch munching at the disgusting fucking food that tasted like cardboard as it seemed to please the woman and smiled at her again with his mouth full just to unsettle her, then swallowed, opened his mouth again to be fed and repeated the action because that would be the last fucking time he would-

At precisely 4.17 pm, B had managed to cut through the binds that held his right arm to the metal hospital bed frame. He wanted to laugh, then sobered up when he realised that his hand hurt from being bent at such an unnatural angle for so many hours and limbered it up, crackled, snapped and popped his knuckles and his wrist joints, then his entire arm before he managed to cut and tear away his next arm restraints, then the ones on his ankles and laughed again because they were so fucking stupid to use the cloth restraints on him instead of the metal cuffs. But he wasn't a killer of men yet-not yet at this point in time, and so it was excellent.

Beyond Birthday cracked his head to the side, and let it remain that way until the matron entered his room, grinning eerily at the woman until she realised he was actually sitting up and free.

She screamed for help but B quickly covered her mouth when he lunged at her and tackled her to the floor fluidly and stabbed her eye with that very same pair of scissors he had escaped with, then stabbed down her throat in her jugular and watched with lurid fascination as blood poured out. Blood, which dirtied him.

"Thank you, matron, for taking care of me."

Beyond's voice sounded alien to him, rough and hoarse from disuse and watched her die from the loss of blood and smirked, and looked up at the police officer who barged in at the sound. "Hey—"

Beyond laughed as the man stared at him and reached into his holster with shaky hands, but B was fast, limber like a spider, pushing him roughly, knocking the back of the man's head unconscious onto the metal frame of the hospital bed. The man had been knocked out, but not dead, so he took the pistol, heavy and nice and cool in his hands. He ensured the safety was on before bringing it down eight times exactly, hard and quick into his head and smashing through his skull. Beyond felt like his arm was part of a killing machine, a robot who knew just exactly where to hit in precise ways so his job could get done...and then he chuckled amusedly to himself at the very thought.

Because he felt very much alive right then.

God, he was fucking filthy, Beyond was thinking to himself, wiping the pair of bloody scissors, and the gun that had bits of the dead officer's flesh, hair and brain with the hospital sheets. He took off his soiled clothing, changing into the loose clothes he found stored in the drawer in the hospital room. He tucked the gun into the back of the elastic waistband of his pants, and placed the scissors into his pocket. All he needed was something like a coat and some shoes and he'd be fine, he'd look like a normal, sane civilian... Maybe he could get some money afterwards and buy himself clean, nicer-looking clothes.

Grinning at his bloody handiwork, Beyond used a piece of extra cloth to wipe the place free of any fingerprints, the doorknob and the lights and everywhere he could think of rather conscientiously. The scrawny, tall man with the horrible posture got on all fours and checked every inch of the place to make sure he hadn't left any hair particles, and none of his blood from his knuckles and fingers. He checked and rechecked again just to be extremely sure before leaving, even idly taking a detour in the hospital to take a pair of shoes and jacket from the staff locker room, wiping his fingerprints clean.

He took the staircase to evade any doctors and nurses and hospital helps who had seen his face before. Beyond wasn't as lucky when he was at the main hospital entrance and a nurse who had recognised him was coming towards him, insisting that he came with her so he silenced her by cupping her mouth, stabbing her stomach with the exact same pair of scissors and evaded the scene of panic quickly.

Beyond walked out of the main entrance like a normal, free man, grinning and laughing to himself as he hopped over the gates and hijacked a parked car, driving off far away from the damned mental hospital that had been his prison for three long fucking years.

Now he needed that drink, and a good shower.

It took two careful hours of driving into the busier district of the city at this hour of night, and his main plan was to get some money, vital for food, alcohol, clothes and hotel rent. Beyond waited for the perfect victim to steal his money from, one of the businessmen who simply tucked their wallets in their back pockets in one of the busier districts, accidentally bumping into a random man and being brushed away with an odd, disgusted look as though he didn't like being touched by someone who looked as peculiar as him. When he grinned and walked away, Beyond took out the wad of cash, pocketed it and wiped clean his fingerprints off the wallet and threw it in a dumpster.

Then he had appeared in a clothing store, unruffled by the looks people were giving him, because they most certainly thought he was a homeless young man with his messy hair and weird dark lines under his eyes, as though he hadn't slept for ages. Beyond knew he was peculiar and unique, and very suspicious, but he didn't make a show of it, casually picking out clothes in his size—a sweater, pair of pants and a coat and paid with cash, and realised that when he put them on, he looked better than he ever had.

Perfectly acceptable, he thought, glancing at his face in the mirror, washing his hands obsessively to get the blood out from under his fingernails and then off of his face, drying his skin with a rough paper towel.

B left the shopping district, and left to find a bar for a much needed drink, and finally saw one he thought would do. It was a perfect place—calm enough when he entered, taking a seat and ordering a whole bottle of scotch because he needed it and he didn't give a fuck that even the bartender was giving him a strange calculating look, as though he could see Beyond wasn't the type that anyone could trust with alcohol.

Beyond gave him an eerie smile as he lifted the shot glass to his mouth, drinking it in one go as though it didn't burn his throat.

The man looked away.

"Matsuda-san, please – I don't drink." Light huffed, annoyed that Matsuda was pushing a shot glass to him and grinning at him like he expected him to-

"Come on, Yagami-kun, it's for a celebration. Just one drink-"

"Matsuda-san, you're getting drunk already."

"No, I'm not-" The man finished his shot and refilled it wincing slightly at the after taste, "-I'm in the company of friends. We just finished a case. Nothing bad is going to happen. Life is good, Yagami-kun, it should be enjoyed, hehe."

"Fine." Light downed that single shot and winced. It didn't even taste good.

"There, are you glad, Matsuda-san?"

"Yeah! One more?"

"No."

Yagami Light was a smart young man who had gotten this far into the line of police duty, made a detective at the mere age of twenty-three through his outstanding police work. His father Yagami Soichiro was the chief of the NPA, but he hadn't gotten in just by that association. He had helped the NPA before even as a teenager at just sixteen, aiding in solving several cases which his father had been proud of. His son, Yagami Light, was nothing short of perfect – never causing much trouble for anyone. He had perfect grades, he was multi-lingual, had once even been a tennis champion in middle school and passed the entrance exam to get into To-oh University with a perfect score. He had graduated and passing the bar exam with honours, then entered the career of his choice without much hesitation, because he had always known what he wanted to do in life. He was the most ideal son anyone could have asked for, as he was told constantly, and he excelled at everything without even putting his mind to it fully.

Even Yagami Light's face was handsome and sculpted, with a perfect little nose, mouth and pretty brown eyes, his hair falling just so around his face, always neatly combed. He dressed in crisp, fitted suits, which helped to make him look older and more distinguished. It wasn't surprising that Light had a number of admirers dying for his attention, but he brushed them off politely, preferring to concentrate on his career before anything else, because it was more rewarding.

In short, Yagami Light was perfect. A genius, like Beyond himself was.

And as B sat there watching the other people in the bar, he saw a group of four men sitting together seemingly talking about work, noticing one of them in particular.

That young man wasn't drinking much. His handsome face lit rather nicely by the dim golden light of the bar. He looked too neat, Beyond thought, too fucking perfect and even the way he held himself, sitting straight with a look of boredom in his eyes, disguised perfectly of course. It disgusted Beyond, because he could see behind his act.

What he wouldn't do to come up to him, mess that pretty little guy up, make him dishevelled and drunk like he wasn't right then, take him to bed after seducing him with promises, make him fall for it and then fuck him before carving into his perfect body with his own goddamn bare hands.

Someone so perfect shouldn't exist—at least not in the very same bar Beyond intended to stay and get drunk in.

Light felt eyes boring at him, glancing over his shoulder and his eyes met the stare Beyond was giving him. He was startled, because he saw red eyes which shouldn't belong to anyone –unless they were contacts, and somehow he knew that wasn't the case.

What the hell, Light thought, what a strange guy.

And yet, when he looked at him again, Light discovered that the red-eyed man was still staring at him, a fact which made him very uncomfortable.

"I'm going to the restroom."

Light excused himself and headed behind to the restroom, washing his hands and glanced at himself in the mirror. He had the beginnings of dark eye circles from overworking, staying up late, and if he wanted to keep up appearances, he thought—perhaps he should just go home now, and get some good, proper sleep. Something he had been depriving himself of the past few months.

Light nearly jumped but composed himself when the door to the restroom opened rather roughly, turning and looked in poorly concealed surprise that it was the very same red-eyed man he'd locked gazes with before. Light cursed himself inwardly for being taken in surprise like that and looked away, taking two pieces of paper napkin and wiped his hands off and about to leave, when he heard the stranger speak.

"You were looking at me."

"What-?" Light turned, hand on the doorknob, realising that man had indeed spoken to him, then speaking firmly. This man was drunk, perhaps, and wanted to instigate a fight- Light nearly rolled his eyes, turning his face away, fully intending to leave. "No, I wasn't. I'm sorry, you must be mistaken."

"I'm not mistaken, Yagami Light."

"What—how did you know my name?" Light demands from him, frowning and heart racing. Who was this man? He already looked suspicious enough with his odd face and red eyes... was he a stalker? He hadn't seen him before. It was obvious that he wasn't Japanese, so he was a foreigner. But Beyond's pronunciation was flawless, and it sounded like he had no accent whatsoever. What was this about now...?

"That isn't important." Beyond seemed rather fixated on washing his hands properly with soap, then looked straight at Light with his red eyes practically boring into him again.

"How do you mean? Of course it's important. I don't know you, and yet you know my name-"

"I might possibly be a magician," B quipped, to which Light scowled. So pretty boy wasn't as perfect as he'd thought? That was fascinating, and B wanted to know more... Then he held out a hand in a pleasant, friendly gesture, the very same hands that had killed three people just that night. "I am B."

Light bought it, blinking at B's odd, single syllable name before looking at the profferred hand and then shaking it firmly.

"Nice to meet you, B."

Light frowned slightly when the man just washed his hands again, wondering if this man had a severe case of OCD. But if so, why did he even offer to shake his hand in the first place? It wasn't uncommon, especially in this country.

"No, call me B-san."

That earned a slight frown on Light's perfect little face. "Alright, B-san."

"Would you care to join me for a drink instead?" Then Beyond laughed, a perfectly acceptable chuckle, "Your work colleagues must bore you."

Light was again surprised by the man's observation because he knew for a fact he hadn't made that too obvious. Light had hidden every nuance perfectly so no one knew what he was thinking, and for this man to catch on so quick—he had to be someone. He found himself strangely intrigued, this stranger with odd red coloured eyes, bad posture, though he was fairly tall, constant hand-washing like he had OCD and even the way he stared at him, stared—not looked. This man was intense, and somewhat arrogant to presume he knew what Light was thinking, but then again, the self-assuredness was refreshing, and maybe, just maybe, he could drink with this man.

"Alright."