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Light is in bed when L leaves for class and he is in bed when he returns, lying with the blankets pulled to his shoulders. It is clear that he has not moved and L thinks of a cat, the way they curl beneath the sun; the room is bright because L had pulled the curtains back when he left and his hair is painted gold beneath it, spread out like a halo across the sheets.
It is concerning. Light is prone to melancholy. Depression, really. He refuses to call it that, so L doesn't either, but that's what it is, and he has to remind himself of that sometimes. The absence of a name can make it feel very abstract, almost peaceful, like something that won't touch them if they're simply very nice to one another. It can be combated with a quiet voice and a gentle hand. It is not dangerous, not now and not ever. He is not the sort of person who demands names for all things and he does not rely overmuch on the words of doctors but he is aware of how nice it would be if there wasn't ever anything that needed to be done, and therefore of the temptation to allow this to some unknowable and fleeting thing, fragile as frost on a window, smoke from a flame that can be kept under control.
This is what Light wants it to be. He thinks it is his responsibility, maybe, to hold in his head the idea that Light might be wrong, to save him from it, even, to be everything that no one else could be; but he is nineteen years old, which is younger than he realises, and he knows so many things, but he has experienced so few, even if the weight of what he has seen and what has been done to him feels like everything a person could possibly bear.
Light is so untouched. His life has been so simple, and so clean, so full of people that loved him and so often his sadness feels bewildering to L, blood without a wound. Light does not seem to know what to do with it. He is a fragile thing, sharp as a paring knife, and L is a butcher's blade, and so it his job to care for this domestic creature, which he adores, which he must keep safe, because there should be things in this world which have not been hurt.
He walks close, intending to sit beside Light if he is awake, or to straighten the blankets over him if he isn't, then freezes.
Light has curled around himself, his knees to his chest, one arm serving as a pillow for his head; the other is extended outwards, washed golden by the sun, and it's marked with red, deep gouges with blood congealing around them, smeared with dark fingerprints where he must have grabbed and held. There is a silver razor lying next to him, its waxy cover beside it.
For a second L is very sure that Light is dead. His mind has gone staticky and none of the pieces make sense. Then he realises that his chest is still rising and falling, so he lurches forwards, crawling across the bed, and shakes him.
Light stirs, slowly, curling deeper into himself, and then his eyes flash open wide, panicked, and he sits up, dragging the blankets around himself to cover what he had done.
This is not new information to L but he has never seen it before and it is different to know than to see. "You're okay," he says, because Light is not dead. A moment later he realises that this is not particularly true, but it doesn't matter because Light is nodding already.
"Yeah," he says. His voice is hoarse from sleep. It was sleep, L is pretty sure — he is familiar with what it looks like when a person passes out and this was not it. "Of course, yeah, I'm fine."
"Alright," L says. "Okay." He can hear that his voice sounds very bland, as if this were of no particular interest. He doesn’t mean to do that. He’s just trying to sound calm.
What he'd like to do, really, is to grab Light and hold him close and demand of him that he promise this will never happen again. He would like it to be just like the movies. But he breathes in. That's not what's needed here. He won't falter.
"Shall we," he says, "get you cleaned up?"
He tries to say it the way doctors do when they're giving shots. Simple and practical. Nothing at all to worry about. It's an easy and common procedure and the person he loves is entirely fine and he knows just what to do.
It must work because Light nods, slowly.
He crawls off the bed and disappears into the bathroom.
They've got a first aid kit under the sink there -- not just for this, but he had it in mind when he stocked it, filled it up with things that might be needed and bandages that could be applied with one hand. Things Light could do if he needed to, although he rarely does; Light seems to prefer to pretend it had not happened at all once it’s all over, to leave things open, to let the blood dry where it is.
He wets a cloth then brings back the kit and sits back down next to Light, who has gone a little glassy-eyed. He is staring down at himself as if he did not know how this might have happened, as if someone else might have done it to him.
"Hey," L says, softly, and Light looks up. "Show me."
Light holds out his arm.
They're shallow, which is better than the alternative. He sits next to Light and puts an arm around his waist, and Light curls into him, as natural as anything. His body is warm and soft and his breathing is calming. He is alive. He is awake. This is not good, but it is not a disaster. It can be handled and it can be fixed, and least for the moment.
L takes his arm and, careful, washes away the fingerprints, then cleans the wounds themselves. They are clean lines, now swollen slightly. They bleed when he touches them, and so he takes one of the gauze bandages out of the kit and presses it to them until they stop.
Light is watching him. He lets his head rest against his chest and L hasn't got any free hands so he drops his head against Light's, just for a second, just to let him know he's there.
He folds the gauze up and applies a new one, then wraps everything up with a bandage, careful and firm.
"You don't really need to do that," Light tells him. He sounds a little more like Light, now, faraway maybe, but still himself. "They'd heal on their own."
"I know," L tells him. "But you shouldn't ... someone should take care of you. That's all."
Light shuts his eyes. “I take care of myself.”
L kisses the top of his head. “You don’t. It isn’t your fault, but please don’t lie to me.”
Slowly, Light nods.
“I’ll get you water,” L says. “How about that?” He thinks this would help Light but he would also like to take a moment to breathe — he can feel his heart quick in his chest. He wants to be calm for Light but he’s only human, too; he’s good at this, at setting things aside when he needs to so they can be deal with at a better time, but he isn’t perfect.
He rises, but Light catches his arm.
“No,” he says; the’s something a little petulant in it, which is how Light sounds when he’s upset, and it’s a relief to hear that back in his voice, to hear him sounding irritable and imperfect. It scares L when he becomes docile. “Stay with me.”
“Okay,” L says. “Of course.”
He settles back in; he holds Light, careful but firm, and Light nestles into him, and shuts his eyes, his body softening, and for the moment he is safe.