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The door clicked, and Light flung himself back across the room. He managed to compose himself into the image of an ordinary, unsuspicious student bent over his desk by the time the door fully opened.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It wasn't like him to lose track of the time like this. He'd memorized L's schedule a week in, and yet he'd still nearly been caught unawares.
L walked past him to reach his own desk, and as he approached Light's nose was bathed in his delicious, fruity smell. He was slightly sweaty, which would have been off-putting on someone else, but because it was L, those dank notes only added a complexity to the greater tapestry of his aroma.
Sayu, not Light, was the one with the best nose in the family. She always picked out the ripest fruit at the grocery store, and was the first to know when the milk was going sour. Light, with his comparatively substandard sense of scents, simply trusted her to know what was best. She'd helped him cultivate his current profile of deodorant and cologne, assuring him that it would be the most appealing combination.
He never paid much attention to the smells of other people. He'd sniffed a few books, just to see if the smell lived up to the hype, and he'd found it unremarkable. He was content with having a mediocre nose. His eyesight and hearing were sharp, and the rest of his senses did little to contribute to his academic success.
But something about L was different.
There were a lot of ways L was different from other people. He held his pens pinched in his first two fingers, he slept in jeans, and he seemed immune to Light's charisma. Their first few days of living together, Light had done his best to keep up his charming, sweet personality that usually won others over almost immediately. But L didn't seem to care. L seemed utterly uninterested. So Light had dropped the facade, which was likely for the better, since it would be exhausting to act like that in his room as well.
(He hated that he had almost no semblance of privacy this semester.)
Still, Light had spent years remembering how to interact with others, so his instincts remained around L. One day, he'd come home to find L wrapped tightly around himself, with a distant, forlorn look on his face.
"Are you okay?" Light had asked.
L had startled, as if he'd forgotten he shared a bedroom, and replied with a curt, "Yes."
It seemed rude to press, but it seemed equally rude to leave him there, clearly in distress. "Would you like a hug?"
To his surprise, L had agreed. He'd unfolded himself from his chair and stood, revealing several inches of height that Light had not known were contained within his spine. Light had wrapped his arms around his torso and he'd stood there stiffly for a moment before reciprocating the gesture, although much more loosely. He seemed uncertain, and Light wondered if he had never been hugged before.
With his face tucked over L's shoulder, he'd inhaled, and that was when he noticed that L smelled really, really good.
As he stepped away, he felt his roommate's scent chasing after him, filling the room. It was sweet and almost intoxicating.
L kept his toiletries and detergent in his closet, so Light had no way of knowing what he used. Something strawberry scented, he thought. He wished it was possible to take a sample of a smell and pass it on to Sayu, so she could analyze every component of it.
After that first whiff, L's smell had seemed to permeate the room. Light could hardly believe that he'd never noticed it before. It was strongest when he was close to L, of course, but it lingered even after its source had departed the room. When Light awoke, his first action was to inhale deeply and savor every note.
There was something almost addictive about the smell, and before he knew it Light was building up a tolerance. It wasn't enough to only smell L's presence. When he had been gone for a few hours, the room felt dead and sterile, and Light ached to breathe him in once more.
One day, Light returned home to a room empty of both L and his smell. He had just been in the library, surrounded by people, so he should have felt relieved to be alone. But instead, he found himself mourning the aroma.
He strode to the window next to L's bed, almost in a daze. Before he could think about what he was doing, he lifted L's pillow, stopping just short of actually making contact between the fabric and his nose, and sniffed deeply.
The relief was instantaneous. He felt the tension leaving his body as all the muscles that had grown tight throughout the day relaxed back to their neutral state. His fingertips tingled from blood rushing up through his arms. He couldn't help but smile as he released his breath.
Then the reality of the situation struck him. What was he doing, sniffing his roommate's pillow like a creep? This was wrong. This was perverted.
He laid the pillow back on the bed, doing his best to remember its original position. L said nothing when he eventually returned, which was almost as much of a relief as the breeze that followed him in.
What he'd done was wrong. He typically did his best to respect others' boundaries, but now he had failed. He had transgressed.
There was nothing on their roommate agreement regarding smelling each others' bedding, but there hadn't needed to be, because that was just one of those things you did not do.
Light Yagami was an upstanding member of society who believed in doing what was right. He was not a freak who sniffed pillows.
But he'd already crossed the line. It couldn't be uncrossed. So of course, a few weeks later, he found himself bent over L's bed — safer, this way he wouldn't move the pillow — huffing his scent again.
What was the matter with him?
Today, L's sweater had been his focus. It lay draped across the back of his chair, and Light had knelt beside it, holding the sleeve to his nose. He wanted to pick it up, to breathe in every square inch of its surface, but he worried that L would notice if he replaced it wrong. And this had been the right decision, because it was much easier to simply drop the sleeve than it would have been to attempt to arrange it in a natural manner.
He tried to focus his eyes on the textbook in front of him. He'd already read these pages, but it would be suspicious if he flipped too fast. He made himself reread the definition of operant conditioning, pausing to pronounce each syllable within his head.
Behaviors lead to consequences. Straightforward. Giving rewards encourages behavior. Giving punishments discourages behavior.
There had been no consequences to his behaviors thus far. Therefore, there was no reason for him to stop. But it was only a matter of time before L caught on, and so he should let the fear of that moment serve as its own punishment. He should quit while he was ahead.
L was typing away at his computer. He had one of those fancy keyboards that made almost no sound at all. Light glanced back to his book.
Classical conditioning. Pavlov's dog. Developing a response to a previously neutral stimulus, like a sound or other sensory input.
A smell, he supposed, would also constitute a stimulus. But had he developed a response?
It occurred to him that his face and palms felt rather hot, his heart rate was elevated, and his tongue felt quite heavy in his mouth. There was a strange tingling feeling at his lower back, and he decided to stop his self-inventory there.
This was fine. This was normal and fine. He was being so incredibly normal right now. He would just keep reading this textbook in a normal and regular way and L would never know.
He reviewed the definitions again. He wondered about the etymology of "operant." Not in the book, so he'd have to look it up later.
"Light?"
His breath caught in his throat. He steadied his voice so that it would not squeak or create any unwanted additional sounds. "Yes?"
"There are puppies at the library today. Therapy dogs in training."
Why mention this now? Was he trying to catch Light off guard?
"Thanks for letting me know!"
"I simply thought you might appreciate the news. It might help with your stress levels."
"I'm not stressed. I'm actually feeling quite on top of things."
"Hmm. I see." L continued to type. "Oh — one other thing."
"Yes?"
"Would you like to borrow my sweater?"
Oh. Oh no.
He wanted to say yes. He absolutely wanted to say yes. The idea of being completely enveloped in L's scent, in wearing something that had been so close to L's body felt absolutely heavenly. He took a deep breath, afraid that his pulse would become audible from across the room.
There was no reason for L to offer unless he was suspicious of Light's behavior. So there was only one correct way he could answer. He smiled. "No, that's alright. I have plenty of my own sweaters!"
"I see. Well, let me know if you change your mind."
Light stared down at his textbook, the words blurring and dancing in his eyes.
"I have heard," L added, "that pleasant smells can also help with managing stress."
Light shut the book. "I think," he announced, "that I am going to go visit the therapy dogs after all."