Disclaimer: Nope.

Author's Note: THIS IS NOT THE WHOLE STORY.

The whole story was too much for ff-dot-net to handle. If you wish to read the whole story, follow the link to my aff-dot-net account (provided on my bio page).

Warnings: SQUICK-NESS. (Yes, even I'm squicked by this…) Necrophilia, pedophilia. KiraxL and LxNear. Takes place after Near captures Light, but references the events of L's death. (So, you know, if you weren't aware that L died… yeah, sorry about spoilin' that for ya.)

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Humanity

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"If there was a God, I would spit in his face for subjecting me to this. If there was a Devil, I would sell my soul to make it end..."

—James Frey

"The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable,
is that which rages in the place of dearest love."

—Euripides

"How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it."

—Marcus Aurelius

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"…play it again."

The soft demand echoed through the shadowed room, reverberating off of the monitor-encrusted walls; the words resonated, icy and unnatural, in the ears of all those gathered. It was a surreal moment, a snag in time which had felt impenetrable—above such mundane phenomena as movement and sight and all other human senses. This was especially true in the case of sound: the silence had been so overwhelmingly powerful; it hadn't seemed possible to break…

But Near broke it. Near broke it with such unvoiced vehemence that Lidner gasped, and Rester hissed, and Gevanni… Gevanni looked as if he was about to be ill. No one moved to do as their boss commanded; it took a full minute for anyone to garner the courage to speak.

"Near…" Halle then whispered, chin wobbling as her eyes flicked towards the buzzing, static-covered screens. "Near, you know what—you don't need to see it again. No one needs to see—"

The small boy snapped her a glare that stole the air from her lungs; Lidner's legs slid out from beneath her, her shoulders shaking.

"I said, play it again," Near breathed, his black eyes slit and abnormally dark... Or perhaps they only appeared to be so: the illusionary result of his face having gone from porcelain-pale to colorless ash. Whatever the case, he soon turned away (directing his attention towards the wall of computer displays), and returned to pretending that his buckled knees were not trembling, that his toy-less hands were not clenched— that his nails were not biting deep into the tender flesh of his palms. "If it makes you uncomfortable, cue it up, start it for me, and then leave."

The three adults exchanged wary glances… but they had no choice.

"…if that is what you wish, Near," Rester murmured, clicking a rapid succession of keys. "But keep in mind that this case is closed, sir. Yagami Light is dead. Watching these tapes now is just standard operating procedure, a way of affirming all of the evidence. This won't change anythin—"

He was cut off by the sound of grinding teeth and a sidelong glower. "I am aware. Be quiet."

"But Near—" Gevanni tacked on, trying to be reasonable even as his cheeks turned green. "Near, you're just—"

"I do not like repeating myself; it is tedious and time consuming," Near interrupted with an unspoken snarl, his back stiff and nose curled. "Yet it seems that you have all forgotten what I said thirty four seconds ago. Allow me to reiterate: if you are uncomfortable, you are hereby free to leave."

It was as much of a direct dismissal as they'd ever get. And at the same time, it was an escape route—a lifeline that all three SPK personnel could not help but latch onto and utilize.

As soon as the tape had been rewound, as soon as the fuzzy monitors had cleared, Rester, Gevanni, and Lidner were out the door.

Near, on the other hand, continued to sit on the cold cement floor—mind racing, body on fire, insides twisting and writhing like live creatures inside of him—as the hazy security footage of November 5th, 2004 began, the small clock on the bottom corner of the time-stamped screen decreeing that these events started at 8:46 PM. He remembered from his initial viewing of the recording that it ended at 9:02.

Seventeen minutes in hell…

No.

No, that place wasn't hell. This place wasn't hell, either, despite the inferno that seemed to be raging within and around him. No… Hell was where Yagami Light currently resided: whether that be roasting and burning and suffering forever for his crimes, or the agony of an eternity of nothingness.

But that was now. Back then, back at 8:46 PM on November 5th, 2004, Light—(no, he was not good enough for a name like that; he was Kira, Kira through and through)— was in L's headquarters, hidden in some backroom that Near had never seen: sparse and well-lit and almost completely white. In the center of the space, directly beneath the birds-eye security camera, there was a single long table, made of gleaming sterling silver; around it, framing the corners of the monitor like a picture's boarder, were the tops of a line of black cabinets. Even in recordings, the place had a sterile feel… Near assumed it had been built for the purpose of performing medical examinations, as well as the occasional dissection.

Understandable, then, why Light chose to bring L's body there. Ironic, too, in the sense that Near doubted the room had ever been used before the 5th; what would L have said if he'd known the first and only corpse to pass through the locked doors would be his own?

But Near pushed the thought from his mind. He didn't want to think of speaking to L right now… didn't want to remember—

("Near…")

He flinched; he shook his head…

(…as if exasperated, but really in a poor attempt to hide his pinking cheeks. A looming shadow fell over his puzzle— or robots, or dolls, or dice, or whatever he happened to be playing with. Where once there was only cold air, now a warm body resided: above him, behind him, all around him.

L lowered himself into his usual crouch; back to chest with the child, his arms draped casually over the boy's hunched shoulders. And yet, there was nothing 'casual' about the way his bangs and breath tickled Near's overheated throat… "Are you playing by yourself?" he'd ask— always, always, always.

Near would nod.

"Would you like to play with me, instead?"

A pause. There was no real drama or tension within it; both knew Near's answer before the question had been asked. Because this was Near's favorite game… )

…and he found that once he started, he could not stop. The trembling wouldn't go away.

8:47. Kira had unceremoniously dumped the detective atop the rectangular table, smirking as his adversary's head connected loudly with the hard surface. Following the sickly thud, L's pallid face fell to the right; his charcoal locks spilled around his neck and ears, like a blanket of black velvet beneath a mask of ivory—

(—that would crack sometimes, break into a tiny, teasing, beautiful smile that Near would only ever have a chance to enjoy for a second, because then L's mouth would find itself otherwise occupied: busily feathering whispered kisses down his neck, humming his approval as Near's hands clenched around tufts of silky midnight hair—)

—, and even Kira, it seemed, was unable to dismiss his statuesque beauty. The half-lidded marble eyes… the delicate, slender limbs… The murderer paused, as if suddenly intrigued by a strange work of art, and gingerly ran a finger down L's cold face.

(He'd do that quite often, for some reason or another: stroke Near's face; rub and caress it. If such actions had been performed by anyone else, Near would have described them as vain attempts to memorize his countenance, but no—this was L, and L had committed the layout of his body to memory long ago.)

There was, naturally, no response.

(There was always a response. Not an answer to his ponderings, of course; regardless of his perpetual confusion, L's fondling never failed to turn Near's brain and its mused-relations to jelly. No, the responses came from Near himself: he could not help it, the petting simply felt too good. If the gesture was gentle, his stomach would fill with warm butterflies and he'd purr; if the embrace was a tease, his gut would tingle with pinpricks and petals until he was squirming with giggles; if the touch was sensual, his insides would be lost in fire…)

As if encouraged by this, Light repeated the procedure… only this time, he used a manicured nail in place of a fleshy pad: raking the claw down L's sunken cheek and angled neck with so much force that it ripped the skin.

No yelp of pain escaped those parted lips. No blood rose to the surface. There was no reaction at all.

(… and that would garner the biggest reaction of all: he'd moan and whimper as loudly as he possibly could, because L liked to hear him, and all he wanted was to make L happy.)

At that point, Light seemed to notice—eyes sweeping briskly left and right—that there was no one around to stop him. No matter what he next chose to do… there was not a soul in sight, nor anyone nearby. He was in control now: this day, this place, this chance, this body were all his prizes for defeating the great detective L.

(And he was great in so many ways…)

8:49. L had not been gone for more than half an hour; Near knew from his studies of anatomy and physiology that rigor mortis did not begin to set in until two hours after death. That in mind, he could only imagine how pliable his idol still felt beneath Kira's blood-stained hands: still warm, still malleable… a life-sized doll who's kiss probably still tasted of strawberries.

(He always tasted of strawberries… strawberry preserves, to be precise. Never of fresh fruit, never of jam—more like the sugar-laden syrup that one drizzles over short cake, its flavor lingering and sweet. And though Near had never been a large consumer of candies, he relished the taste of these strawberry kisses: mismatched chests molded, thin fingers groping, tangled tongues battling to lap up every single solitary drop of L's natural saccharine essence—)

The child could see the musing as it drifted through the warped crevasses of Kira's mind. With a lazy smirk, his hands still casually caressing L's lolled face, he leaned forward…

("You do not kiss often, do you," he'd once declared, in a voice that rang flat but managed to maintain nuanced amusement. In return, the child had leveled his teacher a frigid glare, moving as if to disentangle himself from the current situation. "Ah, ah— do not get angry, little one… Anger will get you nowhere. Respond. Answer me with logic. Twist this situation to your benefit. That is what 'L' would do."

Near paused. Thought for a moment. "No," he then murmured, as nonchalantly as you please. "As my partner is rarely around, I now find myself out of practice. If you have complaints as to my technique, you will have to retrain me yourself."

L's minute grin widened; he toppled forward, gingerly pinning the boy to the carpet.

"Good answer.")

L's mouth opened wider, a dribble of saliva leaking from the orifice as Kira forced his tongue inside, raping the velvet cavern with escalating intensity. What had begun as an experimental peck had morphed into an exhaustive affair of lips and teeth and sliding pink muscles; Kira's petting became jerky and demanding—grabbing the corpse's chin, tearing at his hair, ripping down his baggy cotton shirt.

(They rolled about on the playroom floor, conscious only of each other: Near would wrap his short legs around L's torso, and L would knot his fingers in the child's curls. But the sensations brought about by the spidery hands would be too much for anyone to take; L whet the child's appetite, and with every fiber of his being, Near needed MORE. In his desperation, he'd grab L's chin, tear at his hair, and rip little nails down his baggy cotton shirt—stopping only when his own back hit the far wall.)

It was 8:51 when he finally broke away—panting softly, cinnamon eyes shining, a thread of spittle connecting their bruised lips. Adrenaline pumped visibly through Kira's bent body, vindictive laughter in his narrowed gaze.

(Breathless, panting, he'd pause: looking up into L's warm midnight eyes, their endless depths foggy with love and lust and something else Near couldn't quite name. Sadness…?)

"I caught you…" he whispered into the sterilized silence, unheard giggles puncturing the words. "I win, L. You can no longer stop me—no matter what I choose to do."

(Why?)

Another lesson Near had learned in school: rape was not performed to slake sexual desires. Rather, most rape was merely the result of one person wishing to exert power over another; a Marxist struggle for domination. And there was no one in the world who wished to dominate L more than Kira…

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