Warning: Yaoi. Lemon later on. This definitely earns its M rating and more, so don't read it if you're not into that kind of thing. I told myself to keep it fairly clean, but do I listen? No. I never do. Katie would punish Katie if she didn't like yaoi so much. Katie should also ground Katie for speaking in third person to herself because she finds it very annoying, and so do the majority of sane people.

Pairings: LxLight; slight MatsudaxSayu

It gets sort of...mushy, I think. I'm a romantic.

This is almost completely AU. Kira doesn't exist. Misa doesn't even exist. Come to think of it, I don't even think Watari is in here. Wait...maybe for a little bit. Anyway, no shinigami, notebooks of death, or anything of that sort for this story, which means there are no spoilers.

Well. After writing this, I realized I know next to nothing about the grieving process. But it's to be expected. I know next to nothing about everything, anyhow.

Sorry for any errors.

I don't own Death Note.

Light could never understand why L's faintly sweet taste of green tea made everything else just so—bare, afterward.

He notices L diligently scanning the text on his laptop, weighing the clues in his head and trying to figure it out with more fervor than usual, like he was never able to figure Light out. This is his way of making up for that.

He doesn't say anything about the constant changes in Light's demeanor—but he does notice, even though Light hides it well more out of habit than anything else.

Light is restless. The day is wearing thin as it tapers into the silent approaching of night, and he hasn't made much progress with finding an end to this case—of his father's.

L doesn't mind. Light thinks that maybe he's starting to get a stronger understanding of the concept of human emotion, and Light isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.

Watching L, he'd think that the end of the world just came on by quietly because of it.

He is shivering. Little involuntary muscle spasms making his knees weak and his jaw hurt.

This would not be happening if L hadn't opened him up, created a chasm and made terrifying feelings surge through him when he doesn't want it; if he hadn't turned him into a creature of habit to return here, to L, without a sliver of verbal communication; if he had let Light go on not caring.

But he cares, now. Despite that, he rather does like the feeling of being concsious. It is awful and raw only sometimes.

Only tomorrow morning, maybe, as he is gazing into his coffee, given up on drinking and not tasting, given up on listening but not hearing his mother talking to a ghost named Soichiro. She says Light is the only one that doesn't see. She doesn't talk to Sayu anymore.

"How has she been?" L asks, whisper-quiet, and the words are being taken away by the damp, cool wind. But he doesn't seem to notice anything right now but Light.

Light hears him, just barely, and wonders if they are connected on some level he isn't aware of.

"She's been better," he answers quietly. He feels that L is close, and that he can hear him, so he doesn't have to adjust his voice. He doesn't want to turn around, not just yet. Tokyo growing clearer as the snow thins, weather surrendering for now.

He is shivering, still. He can think about this alone. Alone, with his mind, with logic to depend on forever. But not with L. L tears it open with fingers that expose the nerves and pulsing memories, fright, exhaustion he doesn't want to give into—and hadn't, before L.

Ignore this, everyone says, everyone who can love, everyone that does love and everyone that does love him, and they are telling him to look away from the massacre, and they are showing him the door. And then, L is demanding, voiceless, as L is, to stay and see the blood for what it is.

He blinks rapidly to rid his eyelashes of the snowflakes and glances fleetingly at the other man. He is looking at Light, eyes expectant as if his answer has something left to be desired.

Light supposes it does.

"She sees him everywhere, you know," he elaborates. God, what is this? More than he has ever admitted in his own head, must be. "And when she doesn't, she's just staring at the front door, like she's expecting him to come in at any moment. She's already got his place set at the table. She doesn't seem to notice that Sayu and I have started eating already."

He chokes, thinking of Sayu. It's easy to talk about Sachiko. Sayu, though...she isn't beyond saving. She knows no one is going to eat at Soichiro's place at the table, and probably not even at Sachiko's because, now that Light really thinks about it, his mother only really ever ate when Soichiro was there before he was gone.

But how long will it be before Sayu stops seeing empty air and starts seeing Dad? Dad, when he isn't there, after she's tasted, like Light isn't supposed to do, and goes back so far because it tastes so awful. Goes back so far—yes, far, before this, so that she can forget the taste.

L doesn't ask anymore. Wisely. Light thinks that it's probably because he's so good at people-reading, but he it could be that the open book he's become around the other man probably has something to do with it, too.

He turns around, almost regretfully, and meets L's stare. He has become accustomed to it being blank, and it's almost unnerving when it isn't. And now—his eyes are wild. Almost daring Light to open his own and see how close to the edge he has stepped.

It's a scary thought to have on top of a 27-story building.

Consciously, he takes a step back, even though he hasn't moved. L watches, gaze softening just slightly.

"I want to go inside." Light hears himself say. He is on the verge of panic now, thinking he has pushed himself too far, has looked a little too closely into things and now he cannot look away. The air is thick and wet here, and he can't breathe.

L doesn't take the time to reply.

He casts a fleeting glance at the blue-black sky as he gropes for Light's hand. Light feels sick, but he will grab help when it is extended to him, and he does. Pride has never been kind to him before. This is what he wants, and how perfect it is that the detective is willing to give it.

L leads him away, more swiftly than what would be characteristic of him. Together, they reverse Light's tentative trekking up here, the same path as yesterday and the day before. His stale thoughts of L's strange roof-dwelling habits remain still and thick in the air. Light can taste it in the stairwell. The bitterness is gone. He's just tired now. Exhausted. It doesn't bother him as much as it should, as much as it would, maybe an hour ago.

He thinks L is talking again as the metal doors close on each other and the elevator begins descending. This has always made the younger man's head feel light and his body lost. He doesn't like it, so he focuses on L's gentle stream of words as a distraction.

"Don't think about it," he's saying, closer, eyes seeming to get it. "I know. I don't like elevators, either."

But it has nothing to do with thinking, he thinks, eyes wide. It's feeling.

But they're stopped by the time he even begins to over-think it. Light feels relieved. L looks relieved. And it's then that he realizes what a wonder it is to see anything on the blank canvas of L's face.

The brunet is overcome with a sense of awe.

He stares. Maybe it's just that spending too much time around L has given him some loose ideas about social norms. It doesn't matter. L doesn't seem to care. He does notice, though. Of course he notices.

Light shivers, from the lingering cold, he reasons, when L meets his gaze with a barely audible inhale.

L takes a step forward, eyes now half-closed. Light swiftly steps out of the elevator.

The detective doesn't seem to have noticed.

"No point in staying in there," Light says with a dry, humorless laugh. L's eyes are dull again. The college student wonders, desperately, what he's done now.

L nods. Steps out. And Light remembers that he is lucky, because he still has time to fix these things.

Later, when they are having tea instead of coffee and Light doesn't know why he's trying everything he can to piece L together, the detective asks him if he would like to stay over.

Sachiko may not be able to take care of herself, he hears the words behind the spoken ones. But it isn't your job to.

Then, Light feels, something is salvageable.

He nods, maybe a little too quickly, and accepts.

It's the first time they sleep together. Not...like that, of course. No, not that. Light doesn't want to think about that. Not yet.

But they do share a bed. Light blames it on L's questionable knowledge when it comes to relationships—between acquaintances, friends...lovers—whatever the case may be.

Light wonders if he's playing a part by following L here, when, oddly enough, he decided to go to sleep at a half-decent time—if one can call 3 in the morning that. L would act like it's normal, both of them being there, when he looked over his shoulder, beckoning, not even once asking what Light was doing there. He already knew. He must have.

Light is surprised at how dependent he's becoming. He's even more surprised at how little he cares. It was something he always feared, a thought he always ran from. His nightmares always centered around it.

He thinks L understands that. But he's patient. Patient with everything. He doesn't ask when Light refuses to talk, or when he's just angry for no real reason. He knows that Light has either been spoon-fed or force-fed the basics, and then the minute details that concern both men in the least, of how to act—to smile, to speak, to grieve—how unimportant that all really is.

L just lets him be.

He will listen to Light and relive the violence and breakdown of the day, easily, when Light needs it. Because he knows he needs it.

And then there's this, the younger man recognizes. Laying side-by-side, not yet touching, with a man that is more normal than most people Light knows, because of his ability to see and silently accept. He doesn't know how this is evolving. He doesn't know what L is expecting.

He could justify this if he wanted to, he knows. You're strange. You're different. That's how being around you will have to be, logically.

Those words are all just distant whispers in his head, though. They don't ring true, and they're insignificant. So Light does away with them.

He wonders when he stopped caring about technicalities. Maybe it doesn't matter. The only thing that really feels important right now is the quiet disbelief that L has slipped into sleep. Not just that, though. Asleep, vulnerable and prone—human—so near Light. Maybe it's just carelessness. Or maybe it's trust.

He feels weightless, but it's a sensation vastly different than the lost feeling in the elevator. It's not something he can easily describe. Just that it's...remarkable.

He has been feeling stuffy and disconnected in his own home lately. Any sane person would feel that this is a nightmare, too, spending most of his time here at HQ, working beside a man that would be insufferable to most. All this to undo the destruction their targeted killer has left behind. The bloody clues are not pleasant. But it's bearable.

Home is different. It feels kind of like a dream, right before he wakes up, and he's grasping at pieces of reality that make it to his mind before he's forced awake because Sayu is shaking him again, asking if she can sleep here for the rest of the night, kind face pinched and desperate, because Mom keeps crying out in her sleep again; it's keeping Sayu awake and she's tired; she has school tomorrow and she can't sleep.

Here, it is an entirely different matter. Here, there is nothing ominous and unspoken bleeding through the quiet; it is just quiet. Simple. Escapism from the mess.

He knows now, why this was able to happen so easily, why he can intimately know a man that is anonymous to the rest of the world—because L allows it. Light would ask about that, ask why, my tragedy is a cliché; why do I stick out to you? And why, if neither of us are used to this, do we keep trying?

But he can't ask—rather, won't. He knows L isn't prepared for the questions, and he isn't prepared for the answers. Regardless, he doesn't like silencing himself when it comes to these things. But he does, for stability, if nothing else. He used to take such a beautiful thing for granted. Now, he cherishes it, and mourns when it leaves. Quietly, though. He shouldn't expect help from anyone when he's the one being expected from, the one holding up the breaking pillars that literally are his carefully constructed life with everything he has.

He lets them fall here.

Glancing to his side, Light decides that it is quite a wonder to watch an insomniac sleep. Maybe it's just L; he doesn't really know. But still, he's shamelessly captivated by how personal it is, that L is worldly; that he's human, and he does sleep sometimes.

Light doesn't dare touch him. There's fear again, damnable and loathsome, and it's there. That is not for here, not for now, he tells himself. But it remains, especially when there's no distraction. When L is so real when he's asleep and really not at the same time, the fear does take control. It preys on what it can. It tells him that L is, and always will be untouchable.

He closes his eyes.

While L sleeps, Light leaves himself to wonder and wish about tomorrow.

The first time he saw L, he wasn't quite stricken by the man's bizarre appearance as most people would be. He was too absorbed in the strange sense of déjà vu that hit him, so strong, and he was so unprepared.

He almost wanted to approach the odd-looking man and ask if they had met before, if they had been here before or if it was just him. But then there was the off-chance that it really was just Light.

He didn't know. Ever since his family dissolved with the death of his father, he had been forced out of his element. Not a lot made sense anymore. He didn't know how to cope, so he decided not to.

When the strange man spoke to Light for the first time outside of To-Oh, nothing fell into place like he thought it would. And why would it? It just confused everything even more. Light tried not to let his distress show.

"I am L."

So blunt. Honest, echoing in his head. His first instinct was to believe it, strangely, so he just went with that.

He didn't take the time to exchange pleasantries. He never really bothered with them anymore, and L didn't look like the type of person that would be offended with directness. Quite the opposite, actually. It was refreshing.

"Assuming that you're telling me the truth," Light began slowly, fascinated by L's piercing gaze. "Why would you tell me that? I thought you liked your anonymity."

"Are you inferring that I can't trust you?" L countered, almost looking amused. Almost.

Light shifted his weight from one foot to the other, thinking—which wasn't something he was required to do a whole lot of when conversing with most people. He was sure now. This man had to be L. Already, he was displaying a keen sharpness that set off a surge of appreciation through Light.

But...why? Who was he? Who, really, was he to L? Just an exceptionally bright college student? He was that to everyone. It had to be something else. It had to be.

Light felt something akin to desperation clawing at the apathy that cushioned him.

He didn't reply to L's question, which sounded rhetorical, anyway, and L didn't wait for him to.

"Would you be willing to accompany me somewhere?"

Light had the feeling that L was being deliberately vague. It wasn't as irritating as it was intriguing.

"Where?" Light heard himself ask. The answer was already yes. He had little purpose and nothing but time.

L simply smiled enigmatically and led him to an expensive-looking car driven by an expensive-looking elderly man.

And there was the beginning.

"Where are you, Light?" Sayu asks, voice sounding defeated through the phone. He cradles his mobile phone closer, snug against his face. He knows she's perceptive, and he tries to control his shallow breathing.

L doesn't even try to hide his staring.

Light is quiet. He doesn't know what to say for once. He just slithers out of bed, fighting the urge to bury his face in the pillow instead and continue ignoring everything, forgetting everything before it went supernova.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter. Just get here, please." she sighs on the other end. Light hears her tinkering around with things in the bathroom cabinet, remembers his tiny place in the world, and asks,

"Have you eaten breakfast yet?"

Then, a few moments of silence. Light glances over at L to see that he isn't looking at him anymore. He's staring at the wrinkled bed covers, seemingly deep in thought.

"What? Light, I—"

"I'm sorry," he apologizes quickly. He doesn't want to think about this. "I'll be there."

He regrets the words as soon as he says them. He's making a commitment.

But he owes her at least this.

"When?"

He hears the badly disguised pleading in her voice, and answers automatically.

"Soon."

"Soon." she repeats him, and then, "Yes. Light, thank you." she says with breathless relief that affirms to Light that she understands how distant home is to him, because maybe it's the same for her.

"No problem, Sayu." He tries to smile, even though only L can see it now. He sees the man shuffling a little awkwardly in the tangled sheets in his peripheral vision, and pretends not to notice the way he messes his unruly hair with his shaking fingers. Light is focusing on him now.

He murmurs a distracted goodbye to his phone and hangs it up, sets it on the bedside table, and continues looking at the detective, who is now looking back.

"Light..." he says quietly, almost hesitating. The younger man immediately clings to the seconds between L's words. "You can't give her the help she needs."

You can, an almost angry voice argues. You can. You can.

"She shouldn't be alone. Sayu will probably be gone most of the day." he reasons, almost defensively. His voice is rougher than it usually is, but L doesn't seem to notice.

The detective isn't arguing. His face is mostly blank, but Light knows him well enough by now to know that he's disapproving. Light's home isn't the same anymore, and it leaves him exhausted. That's when he'll come here, to L's current hotel, and rest for hours. Then his body purges. Nothing settles his stomach. So L sometimes just talks at intermittent periods about nothing in hopes of bringing Light back with his voice, because it's all he has to offer.

It's an exhausting process.

Light fights a grimace at the thought of reliving it again. But he has to do this. He's made a promise. He can't expect this to all just go away simply because he has been able to forget about it for a few hours.

There's always an end to it, he knows. When he can finally manage to get Sachiko to find some composure and peace with whatever she can cling to, he can leave, and he will know that such an awful thing was never meant to last forever.

"See you," he murmurs, casting a fleeting glance at the unkempt detective. L opens his mouth slightly, and for a breathless second, it seems that he'll be saying it in return.

He remains quiet...and then nods his head slowly. Light stares for a moment, trying to really see, but L won't let him.

Light can't help but feel like there's something he missed.

It's almost easy to fall into the illusion Sachiko has spent so much of her time creating. Every intricate detail, Light knows, was spun by her careful hands. It's the dustless shelves, the warm smell of something sweet cooking in the oven, the lemon-scented air freshener that Light thinks must be left over from before—yes, it's all of this that keeps the house breathing.

Sachiko says she is happy to see him, and she wears a tight smile while she guides him to the kitchen. He sits where he's always sat at the table and watches her carefully as she places a glass of milk and a small plate of ginger snaps in front of him.

"Thank you." he says.

She gestures to the cookie sheet placed near the open, but turned off oven—to conserve heat, she says, because winter is coming early this year.

"Help yourself," she says, taking a seat in front of him, smiling pleasantly. "Your father is going to be working late tonight. He probably won't be in until I'm already asleep, and who wants cookies that late?"

Light can think of a certain detective that might.

"Thank you." he tells her again, his eyes searching her vacant ones for a sign of anything. He tries to compose the storm brewing within his head. It seems to be clinging to the nerves at the back of his neck, and he hopes he isn't openly grimacing.

He continues to stare at his mother's aging face and her unwavering, kind smile. It's then that he decides to entertain her for now. He knows, after hours of failed convincing that he isn't coming back, that she will always live in the time period of two months ago, before everything. The days loop for her. They are the same, he imagines, and she pretends not to remember that she's already lived them before.

He isn't hungry at all, despite the fact that he hasn't even had breakfast. He tries a cookie, anyway—which he knows is cooked perfectly before even tasting it—to be polite. He thinks maybe fostering Sachiko's delusions is no doubt unhealthy, but he doesn't want to argue about what is and isn't real with her anymore. He can't.

There is a poisonous resentment that follows today. What right did Soichiro have, his mind fires at him, leaving like that?

It's misplaced, he knows. Awful and disgusting and sick, and it really has no place here. But he can't feel it anywhere else. He can explain it with the human desire to find something or someone to blame when bad things happen, but it doesn't take away the guilt that shadows him for being angry at the dead, for bringing this to share space with memories he actually treasures.

It's not L's fault, he knows. He doesn't blame him. He never promised anything.

No—he can't be allowing his mind to stray in places like this. Not to L, not here.

"It's delicious," he assures her questioning eyes after he swallows. And they are perfect. But it's far from what he wants right now.

He looks away. Her stare is destructive.

She smiles. Nods. And she thanks her only son.

–

It ends differently tonight.

She is weeping loudly in her room, like she doesn't know Light is just down the hall seated on the small living room sofa and can hear everything.

It honestly gives Light relief. This is Sachiko's first moment of clarity.

He just...isn't sure how this works. So he waits, his headache evolving into a migraine, wondering if he should just give her solitude or try to help.

But he has already tried everything before, he knows. And this isn't his pain. It's hers. What else can she do to accept it?

The rest of the night happens slowly and everything sounds dim to Light, like he's dreaming. He knows he sees Sayu coming home, glancing at him with a confused Matsuda trailing behind her after she finds Sachiko. And then she's in front of him after alternating between here and there, asking what happened, and what did you do?

Nothing, nothing, is the answer he gives when he's on autopilot.

"What did you do, Light?" she repeats, looking wild-eyed and more alive than Light has ever seen her. "She says he's dead." It's quiet. Where has Matsuda gone? Light can't be here anymore.

"What did you say to her?"

"I said the cookies were delicious. Haven't you tried them?" he replies dryly, like that's why she doesn't understand. He doesn't like what he's saying.

"Light..." she breathes, crumpling in on herself, breathing steadily. "She says he's dead."

On repeat.

Light doesn't reply. There's a whisper of relief in her voice.

Matsuda appears again, looking worn and grim with the weight of problems that aren't his. Sayu doesn't want to be gathered in his arms, Light can see with a knowing glance, but she allows him to do this, to take her away. For his sake.

Light, for his part, has never appreciated such a bizarre dynamic between two people as he does now.

After is when he finally realizes what L meant earlier, back when this morning seemed like it was all there was to everything.

This really is all that is left of the life he grew up in. And then there is L, offering a new one with not a hint of a smile, but serious, urgent eyes.

He's thinking too much of a separate life he hopes to one day construct beautifully.

He clings to this image, thin pianist fingers, soft-smooth lines outlining the forgiving gentleness it frames, sleepless eyes that shine with vibrancy sometimes, sometimes when those moments become minutes and they do pass eventually, quiet and promising of another time, that this is simply a beginning, this sharply contrasting beauty.

He is here.

L almost looks surprised for a small moment, and Light finds himself wondering why.

"Do you need anything?" the detective finally breaks the silence, undivided attention on Light. His face is bathed in the blue glow of the laptop he is sitting in front of at the coffee table.

"No. Just..." he trails off, almost troubled. L makes a move to get up. Light doesn't stop him. Just...maybe sleep.

He watches L watching him, wants to reach out—touch—sees the near-concern brimming in the detective's questioning gaze, and finds himself taking a lethargic step forward to the thin man.

He almost smiles. The exhaustion pressing into his bones lifts very slightly, and he already feels purged.

L's eyes widen, just a bit, and he reaches out to Light's shoulder.

"I came back," Light whispers gently; unnecessarily. "Is that okay?"

He does wonder...and L does not answer for a few moments.

He thinks maybe he can tell what the enigmatic detective is thinking for once, if he looks hard enough.

The anticipation makes his skin tingle. And then there is the heat of the older man's breath, green tea with maybe a little too much sugar.

He hears his own heartbeat. He feels a warm palm brush against his neck, fingers trailing lightly along his jaw, dark eyes half-lidded, almost distracted and still much too focused at the same time. L is a dichotomy.

"Yes," L finally murmurs in reply to the younger man's earlier question. Light shivers, warm and sensitive, and unashamed to be. L closes his eyes for a small moment as the subtle trembling travels through Light's prone frame. The younger man likes the feeling of his pulse fluttering against L's fingertips. He sighs quietly and leans closer, enjoying the warmth and the distraction of everything but here and now, and L.

His softened eyes focus on L—unruly, perfect black tresses, pale lips that silence the world, fluttering eyelashes as he gazes carefully at Light through eyes unveiled.

There's that weightless feeling again, Light recognizes. Where did the density of his secrets go? Of everyone else's? Where, through everything, did he leave it behind?

He lets go. Air is sweeter.

His hand finds the back of L's hip through his loose shirt—carefully, almost questioningly. His fingers explore the skin, L's skin, smooth and untouched before this.

It sounds like L is beginning to say something, welled-up and escaping from his throat, but he breathes out harshly instead and slips his hand to the nape of Light's neck. He pulls him closer, quiet but clear in his urging.

Light feels sleepy-drunk off of this, coaxed into a semi conscious state while his inhibitions lay dead and his mind and body function in perfect synchronization for the human comfort he was never above. The belief in that had nothing to do with creating it in reality. He's biotic; human, and he needs. L is there with him; feeling, knowing the folly of believing in complete independence. There is no such thing.

Nothing prepared them, but they fall into this easily.

Light breathes...and waits. There is a soft, unyielding pressure on his mouth, and a muted plea from L that Light hears and answers. He pulls the other man closer, hands hopeful, and the infinite space between is gone. They're fitted, flush against each other.

The detective hums very quietly against Light's slowly parting lips. Moving, warm, Light feels. And then there is a desperate urging within him to taste. He isn't sure where it's come from. He isn't sure where any of this has come from. Maybe it really isn't new; it's just reached its pressure point, and...here it is. Here it is. Here L is, after such self-imposed isolation, giving into his breaking point. And here Light is, after disconnecting and then reconnecting when something so simple and human got the best of him. Loneliness catches up.

His mind is slowing, mercifully, and his body is embracing. All of this, everything—cool fingers curling at the base of his neck, breathing, low and deep to keep up with the rushing blood in his head, and flushed lips gliding against his. The detective's core, to the blunt matter of things and his need for this, too—is stunning to Light. Disorienting. Perfectly content to be lost this time.

Light clutches him tighter. L seems to grow taut in his arms, and then relaxes almost completely. The romance feels like a fable less and less, and it demands more and more.

There is a choked moment as they separate slightly. L is panting a little and Light can feel the breath ghosting across his parted mouth. He feels everything, enmeshed in this. He places several chaste, lingering kisses on the detective's mouth to breathe life into this; into him. Minutes ago, he would have never imagined that he would have it in himself to give that.

And L, of all people, woke it from its dormancy. Light will never put it to sleep again.

They're both shuddering with the lightly provocative touching. There is the near-silent humming of L's laptop on the coffee table, and then the harsh whispers echoing in Light's mind; God, oh, god, oh god oh my—

He hushes, abruptly realizing that he's groaning it aloud between his and L's sobbing breaths.

Light never really understood the dynamic of this, really. Intimacy. It's not exactly a science. It's not something that can be worked through or explained logically.

But he does feel like he understands, for a small moment. The warm breath ghosting across his cheek is everything right now—that, and L murmuring his name in a hushed tone that Light very much likes the sound of. Then there's a timid hand reaching for his inner thigh, and he tries, Light really does try to keep himself in check, but it's so hard.

He swallows thickly.

The stimulation is making him feel feverish.

He feels himself stiffening as L's hands are roaming again with what feels like a new sense of determination, as he's touching the center of Light's chest for one moment and caressing his hip and lower abdomen the next. He's being touched, and he actually enjoys it very much. There's a pulsing ache between his legs, pleasurable and satisfying.

He fights to keep from slumping limply against the detective. It is not something he ever feels. Never this. No, not like this, not even close to how dizzied he is with its intensity.

And L, too. As Light shimmies closer, he notices, against his thigh, a faint heat accompanied with a firmness through those baggy jeans. There is a moment of disbelief—this is L; L needs no kind of contact; L needs his computer and his work; L needs his sugar; L doesn't need sleep; L doesn't need this—but he does.

There's a surge of inexplicable delight that comes with the thought. He doesn't understand it, and for once, he doesn't even care to. He just likes that it's there.

L seems to notice that Light has noticed...this—tautness, tensed and whole body trembling a little with each impatient throb. He feels the detective's breathing stop for the second he begins to gently pull away.

"No," he breathes urgently, pulling and fitting them as close as he can before he can stop himself. "Don't..."

He needs to keep this, he feels. It isn't even the instinctive desire to relieve the pressure between his legs so much as it is just the simple thought that I need to keep him. Not forever, if I can't. Just now. I need to.

It's possessive and protective. Strange, that. Light isn't as afraid of the idea of his well-being tied up in another person as he should be. And he really should be.

But maybe it's just ancient paranoia that he should really get around to doing away with.

L breathes in harshly and then relents. He doesn't look at Light,not yet, and instead opts to rest his flushed face against the neck in front of him.

They are both still for a moment. There is perplexity; unanswered questions and feelings he doesn't care to name right now. He still doesn't understand what prompted L to jerk away like that, though still feeling a bit unwilling to disengage. Light can pacify himself with that, at least.

Still, this thrumming of his heart and the knot of uneasiness growing tight with anxiety is as close to fear as he can ever remember being. Yes, this, not the dissolving of normalcy and almost boring typicality at home. It's this—opening a piece of himself in a way that both terrifies and enchants him.

L seems to have gathered his bearings again. Or is trying to, anyway. His hands are smoothing up Light's chest, bunching up his sweater with subtly trembling fingers. The younger man realizes L is trying to rid him of the clothing.

Light shivers, muscles growing quite tense before relaxing again where he is being touched.

The sweater is discarded to some random corner of the room.

The detective is finally looking at him. Light can see the seriousness in his eyes with startling clarity as he stands bare, and L is sharing his gaze with longing and a slight bit of cautious reverence.

Light answers him with a look of burning sincerity and a small tug on the man's thin wrist. He takes half a step backward at the questioning look he is sent.

L's eyes widen slightly as he spares a glance behind Light. There is the bed, which has been less for sleep and more for just rest, as of late.

Light can scarcely believe himself. It's irreversible. It's so glaringly intimate...personal. And...vastly different than anything he has ever experienced with another person. With L. The notion isn't tired with L; it's unfamiliar, but not unsafe.

They don't separate. It makes for an awkward transition to the bed, but Light trusts that L will soothe him on the there, and he does. Light's hands grip the detective's sharp hips tighter, palms curving comfortably against the bone. He leans back obediently as he his coaxed, with L's patient, captivated eyes and hands, back onto the comforter. It feels crisp underneath his heated skin, and he gasps quietly.

L joins him, though not as silently as he'd probably like. It doesn't matter. There is no one to hear their labored breathing or the occasional hum or whimper. Light imagines that it would benefit him to get used to that now. The noises that have been trying to break from him are beginning to get more and more difficult to hold back.

There is an errant thought through his clouded mind, as L nuzzles his bare flesh—breathing, kissing without really knowing how, hands fluttering almost nervously up his sides—that he cannot hear himself; cannot identify the sounds that are his own.

"H-Hnn—"

He shudders, arching and rubbing, because of the friction and L, and L is just so—

He can hear the detective trying to control his breathing.

Light is shaking with both apprehension and arousal as L soothes him, fingers trailing warmly down his abdomen, his hips.

What really does it for him—what snaps his self control into tiny little pieces of uselessness—is lust and heat mirrored in those dark eyes.

The clothes go. It is Light that initiates it, trembling hands grasping and groping. He is hungry in a way he never has been. The carnality is there, still pulsing and needy, but there is something else, something deeper that could not possibly be dealt with in a lifetime, much less one night.

Light enjoys that notion, just as he enjoys smooth flesh bared to him. It is private and now very much his.

He especially loves the feeling under his careful fingers of the lean muscles of L's chest tensing and shifting as L does, which he is doing more and more as Light continues to touch and kiss.

He feels L beginning to rock against him slightly. He doesn't seem to be very aware of it himself, judging by the glazed way he looks at Light. Sometimes his half-mast eyes dart down to Light's hands, caressing, holding, fingers pinching just...there—god.

His hand lingers on the place just above L's heart, speeding as his breath does.

He thinks for a very small moment. His hand travels down, slightly nervous, pulse thrumming with excitement. And L notices. He is openly gaping, not something Light has ever seen grace L's features—features that are uniquely his, and just right in that way.

"Oh, Light—" he begins, then shuddered and cut off by the hand grasping him. He releases a throaty growl that shoots a swathe of longing through Light, though he forces himself to focus on L. His arousal, thick and warm against the his palm, throbs impatiently.

There is a bead of sticky moisture that gathers on Light's thumb. He breathes; feels L's essence, enjoying it almost to the point of addiction.

He squeezes gently; experimentally. L bucks forward and muffles his breathless shriek against Light's neck. It is both satisfying and deeply fulfilling to feel L like this.

Light marvels. Openly stares.

L returns his gaze bravely and shakes a little, knees quaking, chest heaving. Light can't be sure if it's the being stared at; awed at, or if it's the euphoric rapture that comes with being touched this way, just wanting so much of it. Then there is a beatific voice in Light's mind, the part of him that is perfect, and it asks, Why can't it be both?

L's breath quickens. He closes his eyes for a small moment, shifting slightly under Light's entranced eyes.

Light feels the detective's fingers tracing the back of his thigh before straying to his entrance, tracing the opening a bit cautiously. Light isn't sure what to make of it. His body is instinctively reacting. He shudders almost violently, crying out. L's breath hitches. He seems to be fixated on Light's reaction.

The younger man's mind catches up with him, finally, and he realizes the suggestion thinly veiled in his lover's intimate touching. They could...they really could do this. The prospect of it is a slightly unnerving one, but the scene of it plays in his head like a song on repeat, the fantasy so beautifully fabricated.

"Can I...?" L requests breathlessly, eyes pleading with him.

Light answers by hooking his ankles around his lover's waist and pushing downward onto those long, thin digits, needing to feel something inside of him—something to hold him together, make him whole.

He groans at the sensation, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

"Oh, Light," L groans quietly as he curls his fingers. Light stares at the blossoming pinkness of the detective's face, transfixed by it and the how his inner walls are being stimulated. Pleasure dances up his spine as L captures another unexpected kiss. It escalates much faster than the first one did.

Light's shivers get more unrestrained as L continues to stretch him with deliberate gentleness, sucking and nibbling at the brunet's reddened lower lip before plunging into his parted mouth in what feels like a sudden uncontrollable frenzy of lust. That is when Light concludes, dimly, in his fogged mind, that L must be an excellent multi-tasker.

The kiss is getting more unrestrained. It's wet; slick, as their bruised lips glide together roughly. Light whines lowly in his throat at the feeling of the rubbing, the reckless massaging and building heat.

He's not sure he understands it quite yet. Why is he different to L; why does he stand out? Why does it feel so remarkable to breach the near identical boundaries both of them put up, only to knock them down, to destruct and then recreate something new, so desperately?

He doesn't have the answers now.

The thoughts are shaken away very suddenly. L's fingers brush that spot inside of him wrought with nerves and sensitivity. A swathe of euphoria surges through him.

"Ryuzaki!"

The detective's alias breaks from his occupied lips, muffled, but still louder than any of his other outcries. There is an answering moan against his lips, the sounding of his own name fitting into the relieved tone.

Being like this makes it so much easier to communicate non-verbally. Light is thankful for that. He doesn't know what he could possibly say right now without it sounding too obscene.

As soon as L removes his fingers, Light is guiding his lover's leaking erection to his stretched opening. He is impatient—impatient to feel again, impatient to see L lose what little composure he has left, just...impatient. Irrepressible.

Then he realizes what he is doing when L tenses against him. Too fast, his brain supplies. It will be over too soon.

And he does. His hand migrates to L's abdomen, feeling the slightly damp skin, surface smooth and moving with the detective's shallow breathing.

He feels the body against him relax a little. Daringly, his eyes flash to L's, and he silently allows the other man to take it there when he is ready. He's met with a look of wonder at the dawning understanding. He knows his message is received, and he sees the deep appreciation at the relinquishing of his body and power to the single person Light is now certain won't abuse it. He is relieved now, and more collected than he has been in so long.

L leans forward and presses a kiss to Light's throat. He is trembling, breathing heavily against Light's receptive skin.

Light smiles a little, tightened with the rush of arousal, and shudders as L pushes forward into him. The burning ache is well worth the throaty way L groans and the sensation of being filled with the man. His essence—the musk, heady and delightful to Light's nerves, helps to distract from the pain.

He notices that L is giving him time to adjust. The discomfort does recede quickly. The preparation and L's diligence to stay controlled is definitely helping.

Light forces himself to breathe slowly, easing himself to relax under L's hands and lips pressed fleetingly to wherever he can reach. It isn't just the pain that's unnerving; it's the feeling of being so intimately entwined with another human being, a simple concept that Light has always had trouble understanding.

He does understand now. Hidden behind all the ugliness of humanity, this is the beauty...

L is breathing Light's name against his neck, finally embracing him.

...And it's incomparable to anything.

He relaxes; breathes, and is ready, and L does the same because he is, too. And then he starts moving again. Slow, almost experimental at first, then plunging in more confidently as the pleased whimpers break from Light's lips. The sounds steadily grow louder and more drawn out for both of them.

L is surging forward, pressing; pushing at that spot inside of Light, and he is writhing and shaking, not sure how he could ever live without this and god, is this what sex feels like? Is it making love? Is it just L? Do they really need to label it?

"Light," L is groaning, all breath and not much voice. "Light,"

He's bringing his trembling fingers to Light's damp forehead, brushing away the tresses sticking to his skin. He's looking, really looking at the younger man. Light does his best to focus. His thoughts are scattered. The muscles in his abdomen are fluttering, and the pleasure is all-consuming. Overwhelming, tickling his nerves and joining the highest sense of belonging he has ever felt.

"Mhn...a-ahh, Ryuzaki..."

He shakes, captivated by the rush of emotion gleaming in L's eyes. He's unused to seeing that. And he adores it, needs more. He can't understand why L hides so much when he is stunning when he doesn't.

Maybe because no one was ever around to see it, until now.

The rhythmic thrusting is getting more frenzied and desperate. Light welcomes it. He watches L, transfixed on the way his reddened lips tremble slightly, the way he looks at Light with a certain softness lacing the passion.

He feels the release building, tension gathering to a breaking point. A quiet, needy warning is whispered, dark eyes pleading with his to welcome the letting go. He clutches L almost desperately to him, feels the body against his arching and trembling, and then the rush of release inside.

And he does let go.

He hears L's shuddering breath, feels his own. His frame goes rigid. The edges of his mind seem to curl; twist, as he's overcome with his climax, seized with it. He isn't quite aware of the noises he's making that he's never made before or the violent quaking. Just the indescribable rush.

He feels L sliding off of him. The contact never really ceases, however. The detective stays close, deciding to settle on his side, against Light.

Light coaxes himself back into composure as best he can. L is tracing the ridge of Light's collarbone, and the thudding of the younger man's heart continues as he listens to L's breathing gradually slowing.

The weight of what they've done is only just beginning to settle. Light decides to accept it as wholly as he can.

L is still touching him, almost lazily now, since Light isn't resisting.

He meets the detective's almost languid gaze. He watches L's eyes focus when he realizes he's being stared at.

Light decides not to waste any of this time scourging the contents of his brain to find something to say. He won't say anything anymore to this man unless it comes easily, he decides. He's not used to doing that. But then...he's not used to doing this, either.

He tries looking for answers in L's uncharacteristically soft gaze, and is slightly surprised to find that the questioning look is being mirrored right back at him.

This isn't just catharsis. It begs for something more than purging. Something more...what is it?

Something to work through later, he decides. Not now.

He sighs quietly, closing his eyes and leaning into L's touch.

He wonders if L will be joining him in sleep tonight.

It has brought a sensuous onslaught. Light isn't used to it. Something seems to have been taken away, some link in the chain that holds everything together—what he'd like to call impassivity.

How ironic it is, that being with L would take that away. L, of all people. He's what defines impassive—well, was, anyway. Light isn't so sure now. He knows there's more to the detective than computing and solving things.

It was catharsis. It was the buildup of it, rather, and he's feeling it now. Disbelief that his family is dissolving and desperation urging him to try to put it back together, even though he knows he can't. And then there's an almost hesitant euphoria that threatens to envelop his whole being. Maybe it's something lingering from last night. He isn't sure. It's all so contradictory. He can't figure out how normal people deal with this.

The happiness...well, it does make up for a lot.

His breath hitches when he hears the near-silent footsteps of L approaching him in the small kitchen. Light turns around a little too quickly and does his best to keep his expression neutral, though he knows it's not working. It hasn't been working at all this morning.

Never mind it.

He notes that L is looking him over with slight surprise and maybe a little concern. Light thinks he understands why. He has brushed his teeth—that's a matter of hygiene, and it will always concern Light, but other than that—a seeming nonchalance about the wrinkled state his clothing is in and the disarray of his hair—seemed so beside the point this morning.

Up until now, Light had been fairly successful in banishing most of the pressing thoughts from his overactive brain. But now, with L right here, it isn't so easy.

Fervently, he tries to clear his mind of the images, thoughts of how it felt, how L felt and how it was so vastly different and just...something he really did enjoy. He can't say that, given the chance, he could keep himself from doing it again. In fact, he knows he couldn't.

He realizes his frame has grown relaxed against the counter behind him. Abruptly, he stiffens, and L is staring at him with an awkward look of understanding.

"I...made tea." Light finally manages, gesturing behind him where the kettle is. Immediately, he's ashamed that those are his first words to the detective this morning.

L nods, looking a little like he'd like to say something, but he doesn't.

Making conversation seems not only impossible right now, but downright painful. They opt for tea, sitting at the table with it like normal people.

L quickly shatters that illusion as he unashamedly dumps spoonful after spoonful of sweetener in the mug.

Inexplicably, Light finds himself relaxing as he observes the detective indulging in a familiar and probably unhealthy habit. It's strange. Light isn't disgusted, like he should be. Just very stricken with the familiarity of it. It's almost comforting.

Light sips at his own tea quietly, enjoying the gathering warmth in his stomach that seems to be spreading to his whole body. Unconsciously, he leans forward to rest his cheek against his palm in a careless gesture. L seems to be staring at him with interest now. Light is unbothered by it. The few minutes they've spent getting reacquainted has helped to diminish the uneasiness.

Directing his eyes to L's, he sees his almost guarded gaze waver.

He remembers that the notion of personal space in this instance has virtually been destroyed. And really, inhibiting himself has never really aided him in anything when he thinks about it.

He clasps L's idle hand in his, gently, so as not to unnerve him any further. He finally decides to allow himself to remember every sigh and every breathless word spoken with the reverence it deserves. He does want to remember—the details, especially. He feels like the rest of today will be harsh and raw, not at all softened by the coming of early winter.

Saving this quiet moment is important to him.

L looks almost confused, and he waits a moment before accepting the touch. Faintly, Light runs his fingertips across L's palm. He guides his thoughts away from everything except for the quiet and the eyes that look at him, vowing to be all that he is to Light.

It's absolutely fine for now.

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A/N: I would love to hear from you.