Hey, this is just an idea that popped into my head while i was reading other fanfics and trying to get idea's for my other story, Violet Eyes, soooo... yeah. Minor writers block, so I decided to write about light as a writer instead... Please, ppl who are waiting for another chapter, realise that I'm working on it, but it's just going and going and droning and there was exams and then there was stupid MATH first period and AAGH! So I'm taking a small break from writing my Naruto fic. I feel guilty, but that story isn't talking to me right now, so I'm going to get it jealous with this one... It's a fool-proof plan :3

okay, first time Death Note writer ppl, so I wanna hear if Light is OOC or if it's a total crap chapter. I need to hear all of this, cause i'm in Writers Craft in school and I wanna work on my writing a lot, so please, please, please tell me where I need more descriptions, where I should maybe put more focus, and whether or not I should make this into a full-fledged story, rather than the borderline test-fic that i think it is so far.

I'm planning on making this Yaoi, and if I get into any steamy scenes, it'll all be in bold, so just skip over it and see the note at the bottom to get a description if anything important, other than steamy stuff, happens. I'm probably not going to have Matt or Mello or Near in this, cause i can't really get into their characters too much... well, also, L's better than all three of them, and i don't know how to add them in soooo :D

Chapter 1

"You could always come back home dear… you know we worry about you, staying in that apartment alone…"

Light sighed, running his hand through his caramel coloured locks, mussing his immaculate hair. This discussion again… this wasn't the first time he'd gone over this with his mother in the three months that he'd moved out of his parents' house. The plan had been to stay at home while he went to school, not adding housing funds to the one's already acquired from his education, then move out to an apartment or flat once either his debt or his education, was finished with, possibly both.

The student loans were easy to pay off, easier than Light had originally anticipated, and a combination of scholarships and 'bonuses' from the force from helping his dad with cases got everything paid off before he'd graduated, only a few months prior. So Light had decided to stay at home for the remainder of his post-secondary education… no point giving up free food and board, and it gave him an excuse to turn down the numerous… propositions that he'd gotten from the female (and a good portion of the male) population of his school. No, no, I'm terribly sorry, but I can't do that, my parent's room is just down the hall from my own room…

Light surveyed his apartment from his bed, at least what he could see of it anyway. His room was approximately the same size and shape as his room at home, with his bed pushed to the opposite corner that the door was at, his desk with his computer set up on it on the same wall as his headboard. The majority of one wall was taken up by a filled book-shelf, a decent sized closet taking up the rest of the wall. Directly opposite to the door, perched between his desk and his bed, was a window that looked out from the third floor of the apartment, overlooking a street and giving a glimpse to the park on the opposite side of the street through leafy boughs from the trees that lines the street. On the final wall, the one that housed the door that led to the rest of his apartment, held only a shelving unit and some drawer space for the few clothes that he owned that didn't need to be hung, his old tennis trophies as well as pictures from home sitting on the left-over space.

Light had been, he was willing to admit it, lucky to get the apartment. He had had a budget war with two other people who wanted the apartment, and though his savings from over the years were impressive, it was a couple more of those 'bonuses', one from helping catch a serial killer and one from catching a thief, that had won him the apartment. And oh what a wonderful apartment it was… if only its rent wasn't so high. And that was what brought Light back to his conversation with his mother.

His parents were easily worried over him, so he had complied to regularly checking in with them, telling about the goings on and such, and his mother and father always made a point to make it clear that they always had a place for him, if he ever decided to move back home.

His mother was in the middle of one of those points, and Light could tell that it would be best just to let her get it out already, or else she'd just repeat it again.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, he cursed to himself, wondering why, why he just had to mention that he was a little short on cash. Sure, the rent was eating away at his savings, and the checks that he got from the Police force from the occasional case that he'd decided to help with kept him from starving, but without a solid job the rent was burning a hole in his wallet.

Well, it wasn't as if Light hadn't gotten any job offers, no, that wasn't the case at all. Months before he'd even graduated, Light had been getting job offers at various firms and companies… but he didn't want to do any of those things. Sure, he was interested at least a little in being a lawyer, detective, and being in the police force like his dad was, and he certainly had the mind for it, but… well, it wasn't writing.

Not having a definite major while going to University, Light went through various English, Math, and Science courses. He even took a couple of courses online, and through all of that, had taken enough of each course (all of them advanced of course) and gotten a high enough mark (100% was alright…) that Light could have gone after a degree as a Lawyer, gotten a license as a detective, even started his own firm. As it is, Light's still getting mail from companies to come and work for them.

But no, while all that other stuff was interesting, Light liked WRITING, and, regardless of how his father thought that it was a waste of time for him to do that rather than save lives (which he still did), he wanted to be a writer.

It was fascinating how authors got across their feelings, making whole new worlds, governments and characters, a whole new set of rules in a new world, it was enthralling… they could get their views across to millions of people across the world without having to leave your hometown, you could make readers feel what you wanted them to, you could, in some cases, have them love or hate your characters. It was all too tempting a life, and though Light did have the skill to make a difference to the people in the real world, catching criminals and keeping innocents from going to jail, there was always the thought that if only those criminals had been influenced to grow up differently, or if they had this set of morals taught to them rather than letting them grow up to do that… well, if Light could write something to help people get their morals set and get their rights and wrongs sorted out, then even after Light grew old and died, his books would be around to set people right.

If he was a police officer or a detective or a lawyer, the criminals would still be criminals, and there would still be even more criminals, and who would have his level of intellect to deal with them after he died?

Sure, maybe there would be another person out there eventually… but what Lights dad didn't seem to understand is that he's fine with helping out the police force AND write…

But the pay still wasn't enough.

And if that wasn't bad enough, Light was experiencing the worst thing in the writers' world. Something so horrifying that it's made hardened veterans of the novelist breed cry.

Writers block.

Lights tried every method to get the idea's that he's sure are in his head to flow from his fingers, from continuous writing to reading various novel genres…

The idea to the continuous writing is to set a timer for a few minutes, and just start writing. Write anything that's on your mind; write about your day, what you think about writing for those few minutes, anything at all. Well, Light had tried writing continuously from anywhere between 4 minutes to 4 hours, and all that did was give him a cramped up wrist and sore fingers.

Reading various genre's helps open your mind, letting your mind sort through idea's and possibly give you inspiration through something the author wrote. Light had re-read every book in his apartment, every book in his parent's house, and had spent three days going through the local library's shelves, reading everything from short stories, to novellas to all types of series to books of poetry, all the way down to text-books (high school, and various college/university ones to) and picture books.

Yeah.

Picture books.

That's what he'd gotten down to.

And still, though he managed to read a couple of really good books that he otherwise wouldn't have read, as well as revisiting some of the thicker books that he hadn't read since the early grades of middle school, he still couldn't get anything from the books that really made him want to write.

Sure, there were some good ideas in there, but nothing that really caught him, nothing really substantial.

So he was stuck on the phone with his worrying mother, he had maybe two or three more months at best until he couldn't afford rent AND food, and he had an idiotic case of writers block.

Fun.

"… and you know dear, your room is still here if you ever need it."

Light sighed again, blowing the air upwards, flipping his bangs upwards.

"Mom, I'm not moving back into the house. Really, I'm fine. I'm just blowing it out of proportion… besides, I'm going to go check out a job tomorrow," an evil, horrible job that Matsuda suggested to me, "so you really don't have to worry… but it'll only be a temporary one… I'm still going to be a writer mom, I'm just going to get some… funding… of a sort."

The excited gasp from the person on the other side of the conversation turned into a sigh, and Light cringed slightly. Apparently extra courses and night school had gotten his mothers expectations a great deal higher than being a writer put him at.

"okay dear… just remember to call. You know we worry about you," yes, yes you do, "and it doesn't help that you're not using… well, it doesn't help that you're not taking advantage of your education…"

Yeah, it's obvious that she thinks that I'm wasting time on the ground when her expectations are on cloud nine… great.

After a few more words of reassurance, I hung up. Do I really have to…? Yeah.

Well, maybe a change of pace will do me good…

Picking up the phone again, I started dialing a familiar number, listening to it ring for a while before Matsuda's voice cheerily told me that hey, I've reached Matsuda and that he wasn't actually in right now and, oh! Could I just please, please, please leave a message after the beep and he'd try to get back to me as soon as possi-**BEEP**

"Matsuda, it's Light. You know that job that you were telling me about? Well, I've… changed my mind about it…"

*clink*

Sip.

A pale nose on an equally pale face scrunching up. A sugar cube is picked up delicately between two long, slender fingers and, with the utmost care, is dropped into a mug of tea with a small *plunk*. And, after a moment's thought…

*plunk* *plunk* *plunk* *plunk* *plunk*

…

*plunk* *plunk* *plunk*

Another sip, but this one producing a smile, and round dark eyes turned back to the blank canvas set up in front of him. Absentmindedly stirring the pile of sugar that had accumulated at the bottom of the mug into the rest of the liquid surrounding it, a head topped by unruly black hair tilts to the side, regarding the cloth covered frame from the new angle as if maybe there was some big difference in looking at the arrangement of threads in way. Dark eyebrows partially hidden by a splay of bangs furrow, creating a small crease between them as the difference wasn't as apparent as he'd hoped.

His eyes narrow slightly in annoyance, the dark bags under his eyes giving the look a more sleepy feel to it, before he moves his knees from their previous position, bent up to his chest in almost an upright fetal position, placing his bare feet on the carpeted floor, padding towards the door in the relative darkness of the room, stepping around and over boxes filled with various art supplies.

The figure gave a lazy glance around the large room just before he left, taking in features that he's already memorized in one fell swoop. The low shelves that went all the way around the room, filled with various books on a variety of subjects, the white walls mostly covered by bits of sketched on paper held up with thumb tacks regardless of the numerous holes that resulted.

Shelves filled with containers of paint in different mediums and stacks of slim boxes holding more drawing materials were neatly displayed in contrast to the rest of the room, one entire table set up with paint brushes of all sizes and types, pallet knives and an odd assortment of knick-knacks all lined up according to size right next to a large sink.

Moving away from the room, steps slow and deliberate, posture slouched in an obviously unhealthy way, the artist made his way through the halls of his house on his way to Heaven, alternating between looking at the ceiling, the wall, and his feet, pondering on what to do with his situation.

Reaching his destination, he pushed the door leading to Heaven open, letting it swing shut behind him as he let instinct guide him towards the fridge, the glimmer off of the kitchen counters like glazed sugar, but no, from a young age the artist had learned that the counter, no matter how glittering or shiny, tasted like an of the sugary confections that were always (ALWAYS) stocked in the left fridge, the pantry, and 4 of the six drawers that took up half of the northern wall.

The door opened and the artist looked up from behind the fridge door, allowing either side of his mouth to curl upwards in a smile at the sight of his elderly caretaker, Watari.

The old man looked a little bit startled to see the twenty-something year old, but gave a gentle smile otherwise, the lines of age on his face deepening slightly.

"L, I didn't expect you to be down here… still having problems?" the deep voice had an English accent to it, and Watari motioned for him to take a seat at the Kitchen island, Taking L's place at the fridge and pulling out a strawberry cheesecake.

The now identified L perched at one of the chairs at the counter, putting his weight on his heels as he arranged his knees against his chest, arms coming around to curl in front of his knees, picking lightly at the thread worn fabric of his faded baggy jeans.

"Yes. I believe that I am experiencing the painters' equivalent to writers block… I'm not quite sure what to do, seeing as this hasn't happened before…" L's voice was low, the tone of which made it seem like he was talking more to himself. His right hand came up and he lightly bit thumb, letting go of the flesh to let it trail across his bottom lip.

Watari set a plate with a slice of the cake on it in front of L, the lines between the crust and the filling stark lines, a sugar-glazed strawberry cushioned in a fluff of whipped cream, setting a fork beside the plate.

"what have you tried to get rid of this… artists block?"

L took a moment to gather his thoughts, picking up the fork by its end with the tips of his fingers, handling it as if he was picking up evidence in a crime scene, carefully inserting the forks prongs into the smooth substance of the cheesecake and bringing it to his mouth, curling his tongue around the fork both before and after the cake was making its way to his stomach, then repeated his beginning motions.

"Mn, I've sketched out photographs in various styles and mediums, drawn out scenes from novels that I've liked, and I've slept for a couple of hours. I honestly can't figure out what I would like to draw." L himself couldn't believe that he was having this problem. He, L, the current top artist, the artist who no one knows the identity of save for a few privileged persons, the artist who had managed to stump the most analytical art critics, had 'artists block'. Money was no issue for him, his paintings and sketches selling for a generous amount, yet he was having trouble with what to draw.

If ever there was a truly apt example of the saying "money doesn't buy everything," L's situation is it.

Watari considered this for a moment, taking the plate and fork from L once he'd finished getting every last crumb from the plate.

"I've heard that a change of pace helps writers when they are having this problem. Maybe you should do something active, allow your mind to work on something specific rather than on something vague."

L considered this for a moment.

He didn't want to move on to a subject that didn't involve some sort of drawing, but yes, maybe a change of pace would do him good… something specific…hmm…

There was Tennis, but that would be moving on to something off from art, though there was no reason why he couldn't do that along with whatever else he decided to do… a change of pace would definitely mean venturing into society, and though how his manner of dress and conduct tended to make others uncomfortable, L didn't plan on changing. So that scratched getting a job off of the short list of things to do that would be a change of pace…

It would have to be a place where there was no dress code, or at least a minimal one, like no shirt no service, and where L's habits would garner little to no attention. L knew he was a slob, at least in comparison to the rest of society, and he knew that his diet would make the average citizen cringe.

So where could he go to get a change of pace, where he could still draw, where he could dress the way he wanted to, eat whatever he wanted, and not be bothered? It would have to also cater to his odd hours, allowing for time on any other fancy that happened upon him… There was a thought of a place niggling at the edges of his mind, and L could tell that it would be an obvious answer that would comply with all of his needs.

L got up and padded over to the drawers that held his smaller sweets, bypassing the cookie drawer and instead pulling a cherry lolly pop from a box, its wrapper crinkling as L twisted and pulled the sugary goodness from within, holding the stem of the treat the same way he held the fork, giving an experimental lick to the treat before sliding it into his mouth.

Clothes don't matter, what you eat doesn't matter, time is of no consequence, at least if you have the right connections, and there's no need for any special social conduct…

Ah.

That thought was brought to the forefront of his mind, and a dozen different possibilities sprung up, different ways for this to become a reality. This was the solution to the artists 'writers block' that would allow L to continue drawing, dress the way he wanted to, eat what he wanted, let any peculiarity in his personality be of no consequence, and would only be a matter of the right documents being shown and the right papers being forged.

Simple, it really is.

"Watari, I believe that I'm going to go to school…"

TBC

Hope you liked it... i think that i am going to be serious with this, buuut... reviews would convince me more :3

Seriously though... i need critiques, i need input... this is the ground work for this... if i need to change anything or work on one aspect, i won't realise it untill it's too late, and it'll be all because you were too lazy to press that little rectangle that says "Review" in green...

please and thank you, working on the next chapter tomorrow after school, soooo, yeah :P

~Doodled93~