Work Text:
In Another Life
When he reaches out his fingers and they touch yours, it's marble white, and marble cold. Yet, somehow, it's reassuring in a way you cannot explain with mere words so you don't open your mouth, and you don't think, and you simply feel them slowly curl around yours and you remind yourself to breath, to meet his unwavering and demanding black eyes; they're anticipating and questionable, unblinking as they just stare into the twilight drama that is your mind. There's a searing a warmth in your stomach, so white hot and blinding, that you can feel yourself crack a smile, and you feel the foundation of your distress rattle and shake, but you don't meet his eyes; not in this life, you tell him, because there's only so much room for one L or Light in this small, cruel world.
You try to slip from his grip, but he tightens down, so that it's almost painful, but you won't admit that, and you simply can't because the humming in your mind is so powerful and floaty. You're on a cotton-candy cloud and you can't come down. He's whispering words to you, but you don't catch any of them, because the feeling is lingering, drowning out any protests or rational thinking, limiting your deducting skills so you are paralyzed with blissful silence. Your heart is singing in its chest, so innocently, and with so much intimacy, you're not familiar with the feeling, and one of your hands clap down over that region, like you cannot understand why you are doing so.
This is another taste of power you've never experienced, and you crave for more, and you're drunk with it, so when he tugs you along, you are pliant and unresistant and follow him like a lost sheep, almost laughing, almost singing, almost doing the stupid things as a teenager you never dared to dream of.
You're smiling doltishly, and yet the emotion is so transparent and pure and so insane, but you don't catch in the web of realization and reality, because all you notice right now, is him. Your breath hitches in a good way and your heart is pounding, and you tighten your grip. Your curled fingertips mold protectively in his and he doesn't tell you it's going to be okay, but you don't care; you're breathing in his familiar scent, and you're still almost smiling.
You call his name once, twice, three times in a row and when he doesn't answer, you frown, before you tug on his sleeve like a child, shaking you head because you see what is waiting for you, and you pale; he clutches you protectively, doesn't whisper to you that it's going to be okay, because both you and him knows it isn't, but you just whisper giddily back, and reach up, petting his tangle of black mane.
Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take, he'll see it through until the end.
There are no tears, as he leads you down the hallways, each step slow and steady, but you're still floating, soaring with the feeling, and you grin and wave in your cuffed hands to the onlookers, who stare at the both of you in shock and confusion. You're strutting down the lane with him, with so much confidence and comfort, like you own the place, that some turn and point, and you turn, and you smile with not a single care in the world, negativity flying pass your head.
He pulls you back protectively, and pats you on the shoulder. He tells you that he's never met anyone quite like you, and the chances are, he is ninety-eight percent correct and you both know it.
The chains on your hands and feet rattle and drag along the wooden floors, the noises a blur against your fiercely beating heart and fiercely burning eyes because you realize out of all the chaos, that this was too good to be true, yet too awful not to be. You crash into him, and you hug him, and you grab him around the middle, and you just want to disappear with him, into nothing and one pure sensation. Hope.
After one whole minute, he tugs you along, and he doesn't say anything, still staring at you and when you push open that door, you stumble, he catches you and you feel a tear drop, yet you don't care. You're so confused, yet so oddly and crazy in love, or what you define love as because you feel yourself flush and overheat, and it's suddenly too much to stay awake for, because it's so good, too good that you're sudden afraid of the sensations that are distressing your brain and swallowing you whole.
Out of the blue, he shakes you stare up in concern, and you touch one of his cheeks gently, wiping away wetness. Your own eyes are blurry, so you don't know if he's just anxious, or you are, or he just cried because all three possibilities seemed so far away and surreal.
When he kisses you; it's too hot, it burns your lips and you recoil for a split second just to go back for more, a deep purr building in your throat and you can't feel anything but reassurance and almost-hope. You're still buzzing when he reached the end of the hallway and your heart doesn't even sink, as he opens the door, as slowly as possible, trying to hold onto this one moment for eternity, and you get impatient, yet you still feel the sensation, so you don't know what to do.
It hurts, it hurt, and with one loud bang, you push your palms onto the back of his hand, and you fling the door open. He carries you protectively towards your destination, and your faltering limp becomes a strut, that stance dominate and proud, each motion confidence-filled and love-spiked and confused- end it, you think, just end it.
He only, finally, a thousand unwillings on his features, lets you go physically once you settle into the chair, and the doctor straps you in. You see him struggling, whispering a thousand words to you, as an officer pushes him out, and you smile; it hurts your mouth.
The expression drops, before false confidence follows in pursue. Then, you see him against the glass window, with a hundred onlookers giving you the look of a death parade, and it's one Hell of a feeling, you decide.
“Do you have any last words?”
“Maybe in the next life,” you decide, and on that note, you silence yourself.
Seconds later, you're being hooked up to tubes and wires, and you decide that you can live with it. Bottles after bottles of drugs are pushed into your veins, flooding your system and your vision blurs in and out twice, before you crack one last smile; it's pure, yet defiant, intimate and regretful.
Your gaze searches his through the glass window, but he is already leaving, his back turned and your heart sinks, not in betrayal but in understanding; justice really is a double-edged blade, because you know that he knows that he fell in love with a killer, because he fell in love with Kira.
Perhaps you're insane for loving, perhaps you're insane for killing, perhaps you're insane for wanting to play God, but perhaps, it is was it is.
Maybe in another life, you decide and you decide you can crawl on that thought.
You stutter once, just once before you twitch. Then, your heart stops beating and you decide, it must all be over; it hurts to be in love, it hurts to want to win, it hurts, because you're only human, and it hurts because you know you aren't crazy despite what History's going to write.