Title: Smoke and Mirrors, and Dreams

Crossover: xxxHolic / Death Note

Characters: Ichihara Yuuko, L, Yagami Light. Mentions of Watanuki Kimihiro, Amane Misa, Ryuk, Near and Mello.

Pairings: L/Light, possibly.

Timeline: None specified.

They come to her in smoke-filled dreams, the beautiful boy with flashing red eyes and the other with an indigo aura, and the chain roaring white-hot between them.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath, for it is the first time she has seen the ties of fate manifested so literally. She quickly learns that it is the only literal thing about them.

They are not boys, not human, not really. For they are as they see themselves, raw intelligence whittled sharp and diamond-hard by isolation, masks so thick they feel and move like skin. They are needs so deep and so long unfulfilled as to be stronger than gravity, and that pull reality forward so they may clash together. Armored by conscience, they are righteousness against righteousness, and the world itself hangs in the balance. Selfless guises for the selfish games they play.

Side by side, they face forward, staring fixedly as though at an invisible page or screen. But always, they face one another, pressing forward, seeking intimacy that they have never sought with another before, and never will again. Close enough to touch, choke, claim, kiss, possess, kill.

They are opposites, or, perhaps more accurately, perfect mirror images. One is carefully tailored, every honey-brown hair in place to hide the rabid chaos of his mind, his drive to win challenged by his desire to raise the stakes and prolong the game. The other is a gaunt, careless slouch and unkempt locks, confusing the foolish and informing the trained eye of his single-minded purpose.

They may have written the rules, forged the game pieces, and constructed the board, but neither understands the cost of checkmate, or that their labels "winner" and "loser" are, in fact, reversed.

A piece of Death itself is clasped under the arm of one. The quest for answers belongs to another. And genius, and not-living are the curse of both.

This is the inevitable.

Watanuki comes to nudge her awake—a good boy, such a good boy—and she clenches her fingers into his shoulder with fear for him until his brow scrunches in pain. He pries her touch from him and lays her back down, feeling her forehead for a fever—a good boy—and a tear drips down the side of her face he can't see. And she wishes—no, pleads—no…only idly notes the desire for fate to be less cruel.

But it is not cruel, not merciful. It only is, and she stopped wishing, long ago.

She looks back at the boys, and sees that they are three, not two, or perhaps six, for in addition to the grinning shinigami that dogs the red one's steps, a pretty girl with empty eyes and empty, sucking heart kneels at his feet, and two small boys, barely more human than their companions, peer from behind the other's legs. Neither of the two chained seems to notice, for it is one another they need.

It is not love, it could never be love, but it is desire—for domination, for control, for a worthy equal, for self-destruction in the flush of victory—for they are bound, these two, and the one to die first is the lucky one.

The chain sizzles hotly, and the blood flows on.