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Who would've known that even this close to L, it was still so hard to read his eyes?
He looked the most peaceful he'd ever looked even with all those different emotions swirling in his expression. His eyes were dark and dull orbs in the red light, and when he looked up at Light, there was a sort of sparkle in them that one would never see on him usually. This close, he was obviously reaching out to Light, hand gripping his shoulder as he fell from his chair.
Light smirked down at him, and only then did L let go.
This close, it was still so hard to read him. A mix of surprise and a sickening acceptance — acceptance. Some part of L knew he'd die, and as Light held him in his arms, he could see as much. He didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to believe L would let himself die if he'd known — but here they both were, L was already closing his eyes, and Light was already screaming his throat bloody.
He tried to think of L's final thoughts as if they were his own.
In this moment, what could he have been thinking about?
Light had one hand on the nape of his neck, the detective's dark hair tickling his lithe fingers. He was never really warm, but right now, he was unexplainably cold, and he couldn't lie that it was disturbing Light, too, even a little.
I knew it.
That was probably his last thought. I knew it was you, Light.
Light felt a twisted warmth bubble up in his gut when L let go of his shirt, eyes full of what he'd like to think was surprise. Or awe. Or something else entirely.
I win, L.
He held L's body against his for a few more moments, listening to the rest of the Task Force shout and back away in fear of being next. But Light was exactly where he wanted to be — L in his arms, lifeless and relaxed. Relaxed for once. And for once, he wasn't staring at Light with keen and unnerving eyes that seemed to see through all his masks. Light couldn't help but imagine them still, even with the detective's eyes now closed.
L was staring right at the back of his neck, in his face, above him, under him, but Light couldn't imagine he was gazing at him in anger.
Even like this, he knew what L would think, and it wasn't — how could you, Light?
To him, it was always I know, Light. I've always known.
The next words leave Light in a hurry, and he found his lies much more comfortable to speak through his teeth when L wasn't listening — we'll all be killed!
There was no one to call him out this time, no matter how many mistakes he made in his performance. Light let go of L when they had to take him to the hospital and confirm his death, but he knew better than anyone that watching the life drain from his eyes was a sure enough confirmation.
It seemed to Light that L had spent the hours up until his last breath trying to find a way to haunt him.
He didn't feel fully free, even without the constant surveillance and without the need to pick out the things he said as to not cause anymore suspicion. Even without the eyes always sure to be burning holes straight into Light's skull, he didn't feel fully like L was away; like there was still something metal warming his wrist, dragging over the floor, but right when he looked over his shoulder, where he expected L to be following right after him — he was never there.
But Light wasn't disappointed — of course he wasn't. Maybe he just wasn't used to it still.
He managed to get a hold of Rem's death note before anyone in the Task Force noticed.
The plan was to have it for him to use again, obviously — the notebook was his, the righteous weapon of Kira — but the first thing he did once he was alone with the book was to open it to the last pages.
And there, scribbled down on the thin pages of the notebook, was L's name in all its glory. Light felt cold and tingly all over, and he read the name over and over.
L Lawliet.
He repeated he name in his head until it didn't sound like one. He tasted its victory. I win, L Lawliet.
L's funeral was short. The world would keep turning once they stepped back into their lives outside the ceremony, and L seemed to repeat that over and over even through death. He would approve of his funeral, at the very least, Light found himself thinking again.
The day they buried L Lawliet, Light waited for everyone else to leave, so that he could be the last to see him, just like the day he died.
And even the days after that, and after. Light kept coming back, from once a week to twice and thrice.
He wasn't sure why. He did know that he'd be happy to show off his superiority a thousand times over to L, but the lack of response from a dead man made it all boring. Sometimes, he wished to see L's reactions as he picked out all the mistakes in L's deduction — that would certainly be good stimulation for him.
But now there was nothing to come after he recited his growing achievements towards the detective's grave, and it made him feel cold all over.
No one else knew L's name, but Light knew he'd find it disturbing that he didn't get the chance to put his real name on his grave. Even in death, he was still L. Just L.
Light imagined he wouldn't be happy about that, but why did he care what L Lawliet was happy about anymore?
At some point, the rain caught him while he was around L's grave, but he knew there was no point in rushing back. He stood there, umbrella held firm above his head to fend off the rain, watching the dry stone get drenched. This reminded him of something. Even back then, L was already a grave.
And he didn't regret it, of course.
Of course he didn't. Light was just a little mad — that time in the rain really was the last time they saw each other again.
And even in his dreams there was no softer touch than the hands of his enemy — his victim.
Light wondered if L would enjoy another moment like that in the rain. Maybe this time, they'd stay long enough until they got sick, and they'd have to sit back all day with cake and tea and warm blankets trying to solve the investigation through the fever.
Perhaps.
L was dead and Kira ruled as him flawlessly. He'd made the perfect moves to secure his victory as he did now. There was only a matter of time before the world was ready to have its new God, steadily growing in power over weeks, months, years.
And the victory didn't feel wrong at all.
Every time the rain hit Light's bedroom windows, he thought of getting drenched it in again.
Everything is so painfully stale without you, L.