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L takes his tea with more than a couple cubes of sugar, so many that drinking it in its entirety may cause the average person's hands to shake. For L, this has never been a problem; sometimes it seemed as if keeping his blood sugar sky-high is what kept him stable altogether.
But now, during a late afternoon at the task force offices, his hands wouldn't cease their nervous movements. He had been sipping his drink and mulling over the case as usual when a sharp pain arrows him in the chest. He immediately feels his skin go cold. It was between his ribs on the left side– the heart's side. This is what triggered the violent shaking of his hands– the uncontrollable trembling of his entire being, really. He had been found out, he must've been, discovered somehow by Kira– had Light gained his memories back so soon? Was he faking amnesia all along, stalling until he could get his hands on the name he needed for the killing? But how? Where, and from who? His chest is so constricted that he can barely maintain simple, shallow breaths, and his hands are shaking so badly now that his teacup rattles against its plate. He tries to set it down so he can search his own chest for any sign of life, but it slips out of his grasp and crashes to the floor with a loud, shattering impact, sending shards of white china sliding across tile. All that runs through his mind is panic and the fact that he wasn't ready. He hadn't said his goodbyes, his parting words– to Watari, Roger, Near, Mello, Matt, the task force, and– he had always known it might come at any time, but he hadn't been mentally prepared for his death to descend with such harsh swiftness. This is it, he thinks. I've been beat. And I'm going to die alone.
Light rushes into the room at the noise and finds L curled forward in his chair, gasping for air. He attends to his side with urgency.
"Ryuzaki, what is it?"
But L does not answer. He curls tighter into himself, squeezing his eyes shut, awaiting his fast-approaching end. He feels two fingers drive into the crook between his shoulder and jaw, and then they're pressing on his neck, beside his throat, where one might measure a pulse.
"No heart attack," Light exhales with relief, placing his hands on L's shoulders, attempting to coax him out of his upright fetal position. "Did something scare you?"
L only buries his face further between his knees, hyperventilating and toeing the edge of tears. How could Light know what this felt like? For all he knew, this was a cruel trick played by Kira in the final moments of his victim.
"Hey." Light takes his hand and swipes it over L's forehead. "Hey. Listen to me. You're safe. It looks like you're having a sudden onset panic attack."
In a daze, L raises his head up from his legs, his vision a flurry of grain and swimming light. A panic attack. Was the pang in his chest a fluke, a mere trigger for anxiety? Shakily, with gulping breaths between his words, he croaks out, "It still feels like I'm dying."
Light turns so he's facing the chair and squats down, taking both of L's hands into his own. He holds the right hand with a stable pressure as L continues to flounder in the air and brightness of the room and places the left hand flat against his white cotton shirt, his own hand pressing firmly over L's. "Here. Feel." The pace was quick and sharp, but his heartbeat was definitively, undeniably there, pumping beneath his ribs. "Still working."
"Still working," L breathes. He had decided to ignore any doubts of Kira because it felt better, easier, to sink into trust. For once, Light seemed sincere. Concerned. Gentle.
"You're okay."
L squeezes Light's hand tightly. Light's gaze is locked steadily onto his. There's something soft and sure about his tawny, even-keel eyes. "Say it."
"I'm okay."
Light nods. He brings both hands into L's lap, holding them while L lets himself take slower breaths: cool air in, chest expands, warm air out, chest wanes. They stay there like that, inhaling, exhaling, together, over and over again, until the world was made of still waters again.