(Written, once again, for dn-contest on LJ--this time for the prompt 'disease'. Wow. I haven't written about Light and L in forever & a day. I missed them, those colossal dorks. It's also nice to write something that isn't, you know, full of Death. D This is dedicated to reimyorou because her review of a few days ago brightened an otherwise dim week. 3 Thanks much!)

'Ryuga' rarely paid any attention in class, really. There was a trick to it. After a certain point one's perception allowed one to hear and absorb without exactly listening; a sort of multitasking. It had gotten Light Yagami through twelve years of public education without dying of boredom, so he could recognize it pretty well.

But when Light did that he projected a mild expression of interest. Ryuga—potential probable L, he rarely even tried. When the spindly hand of the clock twitched into half past two he was eyeing the desk with more intrigue than the professor. Pinching a pencil with his left hand he was scribbling something on the surface of the desk, in fact. He paused for a moment, as if deliberating. Tilted his head a little. Continued writing in the same fashion as before. Quick, short strokes that made the occasional soft clack on the wood. Was he writing kanji that fast? His Japanese was flawless. But he had been in London and his aspect definitely had something Western in it. But—

Don't focus on that. He already said that nationality would get me nowhere.

He said a lot. He was quite talkative, 'Ryuga'—

"Hideki-kun."

It was hot in here. How was it that Harada-sensei wore that thick sweater? As if it was anything less than—infernal, today. Noted sociology scholar Yasuo Harada had nevertheless paused mid-lecture with no hint of discomfort, though a considerable amount of disapproval. "Would you care to share your opinion on this subject? I'm sure one of our top two students has many valuable theories."

"On what subject?" said Ryuga blithely.

Light almost snickered, despite himself.

Harada-sensei offered a tight smile. "Hideki-kun, you have not been—"

"You've discussed several." Ryuga stuck the pencil in his mouth, made a face, and took it out, the taste apparently not to his like. "Frankly, I think that Comte's overtures at unifying studies of humankind weren't off the mark, but it seems an ambitious enough idea to make such studies rather convoluted—convoluted enough that an overview of sociology as a science and the knowledge it's amassed feels like peering up close at an Impressionist painting. So it has been difficult to delineate what subject you are covering from moment to moment. I think you're underestimating those theological influences, however." He dropped the pencil, letting it fall with a final clack. "The ones you were speaking about just now. Religion is used as a measurement for morality and social behavior in most is partly driven by a code of ethics. Don't you think, Yagami-kun?"

--and somehow—infuriatingly—he…wasn't entirely sure what he'd just been—

"…Maybe," he allowed. He tried not to wince as he spoke. That morning he'd woken up with a slight scraping feeling in his throat he'd hoped would disperse in time. Instead a similar sensation had set up shop somewhere behind his eyes. Oh. Excellent.

And he was thinking, 'maybe?' What kind of answer is that?!

"…I fear you've strayed from the point, Hideki-kun." Harada-sensei sounded quite dry, though he often did. "I apologize for accusing you of inattention, and it seems that you and Yagami-kun will not, in fact, engage in one of your little debates today—edifying as they are. Shall we continue?"

There was a general mumbling of agreement, ranging from reluctant to amused. Light didn't bother to track the difference. Harada-sensei began to discuss Max Weber and Light schooled his face into a sculpture of a listener.

Religion, he thought absently. What do you know about it, Ryuga?

(He'd always assumed that L was an athiest.)

Because he would not be surprised if Ryuga was L.

He hoped Ryuga was L, actually. That way he could kill two birds with one stone—or one stroke of a pen, as it were, and God, that would be a relief to have that over because his head was absolutely killing him. He glanced around the room for a thermostat. Couldn't someone turn down the heat in here? This was getting ridiculous. And his throat. It—

…Unless—

No. No, I cannot get sick, not now, not with Ryuga running around—

No, I just won't. He just wouldn't. That was all.

He turned his attention to the lecture once again, noting with a certain self-disgust that he, unlike Ryuga, had for some reason not managed to hear it without listening. Ryuga, who had abandoned his pencil and now seemed thoughtful as he perused some spot a few meters to the left of Harada-sensei's head.

As soon as Light's gaze was fixed on Harada-sensei's overhead projector, Ryuga glanced at him. His expression was vague and curious. It said: hmmm. And Ryuga sat up a little straighter when three or four minutes later Light Yagami stood up (a little shakily?) and asked politely if he could be excused to get a drink of water. Given permission, he strode out the door.

Somewhere in Ryuga's pitch-black eyes, a curiosity intensified.

(Though that happened a lot.)

But Light wasn't there to catch it this time—Light was a few steps away from the door, wondering why the bulbs that lit the empty hallway had to be so damned fluorescent, attempting to maintain his usual composure in case anyone were to emerge from the rows of doors. He made it…oh, about halfway to the water fountain before being hit by a flush of heat and a wave of dizziness. It threw his balance. He had to lean against the wall for support. As he did so he cursed under his breath and stared at the dirty linoleum, which…swam a bit too much for his comfort.

Oh, excell—

"Language, Yagami-kun."

…

…Yes. Excellent.

"Shouldn't you be in class?"

"I told Harada-sensei I had to use the bathroom." Light blinked to confirm Ryuga's approach in unfortunate clarity —the man was imperturbably bizarre as ever. His head was tilted. He looked a bit like an owl. Didn't look predatory at the moment, but Light knew better; he knew. "You seemed unwell. Are you all right, Yagami-kun?"

"I'm fine," Light managed, with what he considered impressive calm. "Go back to class. You'll miss the lecture."

"I know it all." It wasn't a boast, just a statement of fact. "So do you. The water fountain is there." He pointed.

"Yes, Ryuga, I can see that."

"Don't be vexed." Ryuga might have rolled his eyes. "Here."

--Light caught the water-bottle in his right hand.

--oh.

"And sit down," Ryuga added. "You look as if you might fall over."

…Ryuga had a point, so Light sat without complete and drank some of the offered water, nodding a silent, strained thank you as Ryuga crouched next to him.

"You should go home."

Light closed his eyes, then glanced over at Ryuga with great skepticism. "I don't see why. I'll be fine."

"Meaning no disrespect, but your face is somewhat—" Ryuga leaned in uncomfortably close, as if to get a better look. "—vermillion."

Despite himself, Light cracked a smile. "Art building's next door, Ryuga."

--and the next thing he knew Ryuga quite nonchalantly placed his cold hand on Light's forehead. Light barely managed not to draw back, flinching. Gaah! 'Friends'…right; 'concern'. But it was just—weird. It was such an odd, almost parently gesture that for a second Light wondered just how old L was.

"Yagami-kun," Ryuga said, "I think you have the influenza."

…Several hundred years old, apparently.

What?

"Isn't that a little…"

"Italian."

What? The word he'd been looking for was 'archaic', but it hadn't been there when he'd wanted it. "Sorry?"

"Influenza." Ryuga was at his most annoying when he was matter-of-fact. He was matter-of-fact the vast majority of the time he spoke to anyone. "It's from the Italian for 'influence'."

"That doesn't make much sense," muttered Light, swallowing another gulp of water.

"A bad influence, I guess," said Ryuga with a shrug. "Does it matter?"

Light shook his head, leaning back against the wall. It felt cool. A little soothing in its beige way. Definitely moreso than Ryuga's sharp, raccoonish eyes, wide and peculiar, dangling a stare just in front of his own face. …He was no looker, this Ryuga Hideki. Except in the fact that he looked. …and looked. …and did not stop looking. "—Ryuga, could you not—"

"Have you been getting enough sleep?"

--had he been—this coming from the detective who looked morning, noon, and night like he hadn't slept in about nine years. "Why?"

"Insomnia plays havoc with your immune system," Ryuga replied. "Your body uses up all its resources trying to pretend as if it's gotten any sleep and has no 

energy left to ward off viruses."

Light gave Ryuga his shrug back. "I've been studying a lot."

Ryuga's expression was lopsided as ever, but there was something flinty in it that said right, Yagami-kun. Sure you have.

Light couldn't decide whether to scowl or sigh—he tried doing both and ended up provoking a coughing fit that echoed down the hallway until he finally got out, "Percent?"

"Twelve."

The suspect groaned. "Wasn't it eight?"

"It was eight in physics." Right. That stupid discussion about entropy—he'd said one thing and Ryuga had been on it like a—"Nine in sociology."

"So I'm three percent more likely to be Kira because I'm sick?" Light tried a weary laugh, and he didn't have to force the weariness. "Give me a break, Ryuga!"

"Keep drinking water, Yagami-kun," Ryuga advised, unmoved, "and don't oversimplify." He pulled what looked like a very squashed Hostess Twinkie from the pocket of his worn jeans and began to unwrap it.

"As a suspect—" Light hated how hoarse his voice sounded, and attempted to steady it. "—I have the right to know why I'm being suspected."

"You should get more sleep, Yagami-kun."

You—"Look who's talking. Why the three percent?"

"The guilty never sleep, Yagami-kun." He bit into the Twinkie. It looked like he was eating a sponge. "And neither do I."

You could take that a few different ways, Light supposed.

He sighed. He would go home early—get away from Ryuga until he was back up to speed as far as analytical dexterity. He'd go home and his mother would be there, wouldn't she—oh, damn, his mother would be there, with a wet washcloth and a cup of steaming chamomile tea which had always been the least appetizing drink in the entire world. Well-meaning Mother. Never guessed a thing. Being distrusted was more exhausting than being untrustworthy, wasn't it? Yes, though, he'd go home, he would; there he knew what to expect. His mother would wrap a blanket around his shivering shoulders and pass by his bedroom six or seven times within the hour. Always the same question: "Light? Light, can I get you anything? Is there anything you need?"

Yes, Mother! Justice. World peace. Respect. And Ryuga Hideki's head on a spike, if it wouldn't be too much trouble—

But he would say nothing of course, just that, "Nothing," and, well, a "Thank you," because even if his mother couldn't bring him what he really wanted—who could? It was his job to do. He would bring the world justice (once this headache went away). And, after all, every day she brought the world a little bit of common decency and kindness.

And that was something, really. That was always something.