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When the night is at its coldest, the moon hanging high over the City of Light– with Zygarde’s coiled form and his own immortal blood being the only things to truly stave off the midnight’s cold cruelty... Despite his shivering and chattering of teeth, L manages to find peace in fragmented sleep.
Dreams were an odd thing to the amnesiac. He sees faces he does not recognise yet feels kinship to– although if they be friend or foe, he does not know. He witnesses places and events in the strange void, knowing not if they are true or a fabrication...
L awakens confused at most times, a raging headache forming behind his eyes that overwhelms even the morning chill.
The whispers of those dreamscapes fade over the next aching minutes until they slip from his mind entirely, traded for another day as Zygarde’s tool... Most recollections spill from his grasp like an overfilled cup. He’s used to it...
It is rather hard for him to tell fact from fiction. Did the man from before say that? Did he have friendships with those smiling semi-faceless individuals? Did he go to the places locked in the nightscapes?
Are any of them real?
But there’s a familiar constant to many of the kinder moments within his subconscious. A man dressed in a lab coat visits him often: always smiling sweetly, his voice both soft and exuberant– filled with passion. His eyes burn.
L thinks they were truly close. He thinks he's a real person, not a fake conjured by his ailing mind.
Or rather, L hopes it to be real. As when the dream figure mutters lowly in his ear, such sweet nothings, their dark soft hair brushing against his own blushing cheeks.
Well, he awakens both rested and disturbed in equal measure.