Archive of Our Own

“No,” L drops, short and firm, like a piano key pressed abruptly and let go of too fast for the right melody to play out; when Light tries to kiss him once they wake up, and the sun is liquid gold on L’s skin with black-white constellations of bites.

He never says that. And cutting unpredictability is not what Light likes in love. It sounds like danger and feels like denial.

L typically dislikes it just the same.

He wants control. They both do.

It is usually fine.

Today, it turns into an annoyance.

Into an argument.

Into growling.

And into a fight.

They don’t speak the whole day, rain is drumming a funeral call, and maybe those hours of misunderstanding, of mutually stabbing cold stares, are what gets to L.

Light gets to him later, having waited for him to get tired and let down his ancient, impenetrable guard, and catches him in the kitchen, eating chocolate-covered strawberries - that Light generously, carefully bought him in the afternoon - sitting curled like a large monochrome bird on the couch.

Light drags him up, nearly snapping when L slackens on purpose, vengefully making Light practically crash onto the floor under his weight.

They hiss at each other for a moment more.

Light kisses him after that.

And L does not fight this time.

In a kiss, where L is usually an endlessly curious, unyieldingly dedicated creature, this time he is unpleasantly tame. His reciprocation is nearly close-mouthed, submissive in a way that could never suit him, the tip of his tongue almost tiredly stroking Light’s.

Light adjusts his hold, moving hands to press harder on the small of his back. Keeping him in place and never letting go. “What was that?”

For a long moment of visible doubt and caution, L is silent. Right now, reading him is ridiculously simple.

“Were you mad at me for something?”

L had not been for a whole week before today.

L speaks then.

Says something out of an entirely different script, “I have never told you when I was born.”

Fortunately for him, Light is quite a talented playwright.

“So I would not try to find information about you?”

“Yes.”

L is rarely wrong. Even more rarely, he is wrong about Light.

Light would do it.

“And? I know your name.”

Though the notebook is in Light’s desk, Light has written it on paper all around the house for what could have been the last few thousand years.

Even if it was a mere few of them.

Or, really, months.

“But you would know more of me,” L confesses like it’s a crime. “And I was not… utterly ready and fully prepared for it.”

Light understands it - though it never fails to piss him off.

“Did you not like it?” Light asks, and maybe he, as he often tends to, overly indulges his own feelings. “Did you not like us?”

Because L might have been suffering, and might end up suffering immeasurably more if he does not acknowledge it before it draws the last of his crimson heart strings from his chest, and Light will wind them around his fingers and never let go.

“Or did something hurt beyond what you wanted to hurt? Beyond how you wanted it?”

L hums, fingertips tapping softly, irregularly, a faintly nervous rhythm against Light’s forearm.

“I love you,” L says.

Seemingly calm. An illusion of slowness. He is staring at Light. In his huge eyes, Light sees the abyss.

He continues, less controlled, “It might have been an unwise idea.”

Light sighs, heart in darkness - and euphoria - and grip on L and his chest tightening.

He is getting used to being breathless.

He kisses L, and L’s tongue feels diamond, blood-drawing in Light’s mouth.

L barely responds. Then, leans away, searching Light’s expression warily.

Light pulls away in advance and says, “Here.”

He walks into the room and rearranges a couple of things.

Out of his desk and onto where it should be.

He comes back and takes L into his bedroom, leading him kinder than L probably wants for the coherence of his perception of reality and view of the world.

The black leather rectangle lies on the edge of the bed.

“Happy birthday,” Light says, trying not to have any emotion float or sink in the sound.

L doesn’t move. Doesn’t take his eyes off Light, as if scared to look where he should look to believe that it is true, and loving, and real.

“It is not my birthday yet.”

“In advance.”

He can’t argue with L’s memories of feeling time running out, flowing between his fingers, and heart racing in terror - and sorrow - instead of thrill and arousal.

L thought that one hug would be a lot - he thought that, in another universe, he could maybe hope for one.

Here, he inquires after having studied all there was to study about Light’s relaxed posture and light, cunning smile, “Does that mean you will celebrate with me?”

Light shrugs, “Why wouldn’t I?”

He knows L loves him. Despite all the evidence L had once sculpted out of deceitful words and faux detached half-presences in Light’s space and life. L justified it through a game and tried believing in it quietly.

Light sees it. Saw it, has been seeing it - in sheen of light in L’s sharp gaze, wrongly soft words on L’s sharper tongue, and Light held it, held him, responded, and answered, and kissed as if love has ever had place in a game that has inherently bore an immeasurable cost - and could not be escaped.

It still holds his mind and body in a grip of icy hot platinum.

“Alright,” L says eventually. He eyes Light’s hand, obviously considering whether to take it; hence Light steps closer himself, takes his hand and kisses his knuckles, to his instinctive exhale. Then, Light turns his hand around and bites at the tender skin of his wrist.

L ignores it wisely, though Light can already anticipate how he will be grumbling openly and petting the claiming mark behind Light’s back, feeling like fragile porcelain safe from harm.

“I will book the flights,” L informs him, and Light might not like it if L decides to drag him to England, at last, but Light will take infuriating, absurdly confident children if it means watching L’s face when he’d be admiring cloudy skies and luscious, dark emerald canopy.

L is lucky, though - Light likes him.

Likes him a way that is inescapable, cruel, and violent. Cold and cutting sometimes.

But it’s fine. L is safe, satisfied, learning to trust.

And in love.

And… Light doesn’t want to think about it, even as L, it seems, perhaps, can see it - so is Light.

He won’t voice it. It is in their every breath, every second they share; thus, it needs no sound.

“Okay,” he graciously offers in compensation, and gets back to pressing L close.

L hugs Light himself.

L is warm in his embrace. Scratching at his shoulder blades lightly. Light’s face is buried in the gentleness of his neck.

All is well. All is fine.

And there is no end, no death, no pain and time.