Chapter Text
If ever a god favored Light Yagami, it would have to be Nike herself. Life has been a string of victories for him—a good reputation, a respected father with connections, perfect test scores, pleasing physique, charm and athletics and, most recently, the ability to control fate with but his own two hands.
Now, he need not get ahead of himself. Some limitations applied. No matter. These, like rules and coda and people are easily bent and warped to suit his needs. Not even the Shinigami Ryuk had seen the full potential of the Death Note before Light came into the picture.
He is damning with faint praise. In all honesty, Light doubts that Ryuk could see anything beyond the apples he shoves into his face daily. Shinigami and people are frighteningly similar in their simplicity. Not Light. Not he.
He could hardly believe it himself, how he had wound up in that helicopter reunited with his instrument of destiny. So perfectly had he played all around him, a part of him suspected and perhaps feared even this thought could be a plant by his past self. Either way, it does him no good to question it. So he should savor the sweetness of the victory.
But there is something that sticks in his craw, catches him on his shirt sleeve, and allows gravity to claim him by way of a cobblestone that juts too far from the ground. Light begins to notice it when he has come down from the high of accomplishing his gambit. It hangs back in the doorway with him, watching L take his tea grimly as he presses the lip of his cup to his flat white mouth. He has forgotten his three sugar cubes again. L sees him and then adds them.
It is with him when he wakes up to a cold and silent bed. Lullabies of rhythmic breathing and click-clacking keys are replaced by the creak of the mattress as he rolls onto his back and then flops onto his belly only to turn on his side.
It is discomfort and trepidation, a flicker of lightning in the sky overhead as he stands in an open field. It hits him not like a tonne of bricks but the roof of headquarters collapsing upon his head. As the sun leaks scarlet and blood orange over the skyscrapers of Tokyo, it dawns on Light that there is no sweetness to savor. All gustatory senses drown in black coffee and citrus peel. Light will not grind his teeth. After all, he, that man, is always listening. And watching. And eating and smelling.
This does not feel like a win. He cannot for the life of him understand why. Still, he continues. Though there is no sweetness to be had here, he must see this to its end.
He is lying to himself. A part of him understands. That part also remembers how he as a child had eaten Sayu’s pudding, an act of revenge sparked by an act of clear favoritism committed by their father. Every bite had compelled his mouth to warp into a grimace around the spoon but he continued to eat it nonetheless.
On the other hand, that afternoon there is sweetness in L’s tea. Pale slender fingers work open packet after packet all to dump a sprinkling of white crystals into water that has long grown tepid. His thumb and forefinger grasp the handle of his golden dessert fork as he swirls the end of it in what looks more like milk than water at this point.
L looks up. “Yes? Light?”
Light flashes him a smile that feels too lopsided for his liking. He stuffs down his disquiet and makes no move to pause. The curtains have come up and L has turned his opera glasses upon him. “Just thinking of that time I woke up sticky.”
Immediately, a grin that could have only been formed through the influence of Satan himself widens L’s frog mouth. Light blinks and it is gone. “Pardon?” L says politely, but the aftereffects of the smile are very much still present in the crinkling corners of his eyes. “Light? What did you say?”
“I meant,” Light repeats, slowly and carefully and feeling flames lick his cheeks, “that my face woke up—I woke up with my face sticky.”
“Ah,” L says, but the smile threatens to return, flickering like a birthday candle that refuses to go out. “Is Light accusing me of someth—”
“I meant,” Light intercepts the spoken thought, “that you had your tea and cake on me while I was sleeping. Likely because you were too lazy to get the bed tray or you wanted to keep working and couldn’t be bothered.”
Forget dinner plates. L’s eyes are the size of satellite dishes. “Light,” he gasps, “I would never.”
“You would.”
“I am not known for doing this.”
“I have known you to do this.”
“Not true.” L hums and sticks a sugary thumb into his mouth. “I would not have left any evidence behind.”
Light feels several collisions somewhere in the area of his breastbone; sensations he has felt before and just as he did then he will not notice them now. He would parry with some rejoinder but something about L’s claim of leaving no evidence and the tongue lapping at L’s thumb as he shows Light his digit free and clean of powder while saying, “See?” glues Light’s tongue to the roof of his mouth. Light shakes his head and gathers his words carefully this time.
“It is true. You have exhibited similar habits in front of the task force. I’ve seen you use Matsuda’s back as a temporary desk when you were writing on a memo and didn’t feel like walking three feet to an actual flat surface.” On L’s metaphorical arm, to which is attached the metaphorical hand that kept prodding the bars of his cage, Light bites down and does not let go. Make him sound like a pervert, will he?
L is not impressed with Light’s analysis. “I am a busy man.”
“It was three feet away.”
“I am a very busy man.”
He is also an infuriating man. “You have also attempted to use Aizawa’s head as a cupholder.”
“I was carrying donuts,” L replies stubbornly. “Did he want me to spill coffee everywhere? Did you want me to spill coffee everywhere?” Light can just hear him adding “Kira?” in his head. And that is where that jab will remain, Light longs to say, smugly. No longer can L fire off accusations like stray bullets without currying the ire of the task force.
Instead, Light carries on their argument. “You were carrying six donuts in your arms and they were all for you. You could have put four of them down.”
“Don’t be silly,” L answers. He is smiling now. Despite himself, so is Light. “Sugar powers the deductive reasoning that we need to move the investigation forward. So I needed to eat that many donuts, you see. It was for the team. I took one for the team.”
“It was half a dozen.”
“I ate half a dozen donuts for the team.”
It is the sincerity of his tone and the somber nod from L that coaxes a giggle out of Light. The suddenness and impulsivity of the action makes Light pause. He is not himself today. This is not him. The masks are cracking, the cowls are tearing, and Light is realizing that the end truly is approaching. In a few weeks, it will have been a year since picking up the notebook. It has been a year more exciting than any moment in his dull eighteen years of what many would call “life”. Gods, magic books, and secret identities—everything has been like something out of a comic book or the strangest novel ever penned, and it is all ending.
He has been staring at his hands too long. When Light looks up again, his stomach lurches. Ryuk must be about because he feels a ghost’s hand in his chest with claws wrapped tight around that shuddering muscle, a little quirk of the Shinigami’s that would emerge whenever Light was being too insolent, usually as the spirit whispered, “Someday,” in Light’s ear.
L is watching him like Light’s mother had been looking at him when he had declared at eight years old during dinner that they would be a family “forever”, choosing not to reveal to him at the time that a gunshot wound a week ago, the reason why Daddy has been home “sleeping so much,” had almost made a liar out of him. Amusement mingles with sadness on L’s face. It is in the darkness of his eyes and the minute crease under his nose he might call a smile. Light’s insides perform a belly flop.
“What is it?” he asks but it comes out as a whisper.
L shrugs and Light is certain he will never see the look again. “Nothing,” L deadpans. “Just thinking about it.”
Light feels himself lean in. He cannot help himself. His body does it on its own. “About what?”
L does not answer right away. His eyes are trained on the clouds that Light feels he might be able to touch if he just opens a window and reaches out. “The loneliness, I think.”
There is a carousel inside Light’s abdomen and all his entrails are on their fifth time around. He gets up. His mouth moves according only to its own will. “Don’t worry about it, Ryūzaki,” it says for him. Everything is so on automatic he almost flashes his brightest smile. Not now. This is not the time. L can suspect nothing. Only at the very end can he relieve his curiosity and confirm his suspicions. It will be Light’s final kindness to him; a kindness that L does not deserve. “We will get to the bottom of this case. I promise you.”
He feels Rem’s eyes on him.
He excuses himself to the bathroom. Briskly, he walks. L cannot be left alone with the Shinigami for long but he feels that the good standing and reputation he has wrenched from L’s grasp will be imperiled if he deposits his lunch directly onto a computer.
But what did he mean by “the loneliness”? All of the contents of Light’s belly churns. Anxiety is a prod to a horse’s hindquarters, and his mind now is that mare racing and racing. Again he has underestimated L. He has not watched L closely enough. He cannot. After long days and even longer nights of watching and waiting, his body will give out on him as he surrenders to the temptation of warm sheets and plush pillows. L is more practiced at the game of insomnia than he and he has no way of knowing what is it L gets up to while he rests.
Light rubs the nape of his neck. He has no evidence that L has thrown a spanner into the works. This is paranoia, plain and simple, as inconvenient as L’s depression has been convenient to him. L is in no condition to strategize. Light will win.
The bathroom door closes behind him. Over the sink, he starts to retch. In such discomfort is he that it does not strike him just how embarrassing this is. He has not felt this sick since he was a small child. But there are worse orifices to relieve oneself through, so he will put up with it.
Out it comes, but it is so small, and so dainty, that Light would have never believed it to be the source of his nausea had its expulsion not been followed by immediate relief. Light squints at it and carefully reaches into the sink. Using just the tips of his fingers, he fetches the object and stares.
It is the single petal of a blue rose.