Chapter Text
Throughout the room, few sounds murmur among the abandoned couches, office chairs, and work stations of their fellow Kira task force members. Instead, L fills in the gaps with his own chair creaking as he shoves himself back and forth. With each grating scrape, Light’s eyes leap over to him – Pavlovian, if Pavlov had a sullen pretty boy rather than hungry dogs – and he watches L adjust himself in annoyed captivation. Light lets out a huff, folds his arms, and shoots his gaze away when L meets it.
“Six percent.” L says. “No, wait. Ten percent.”
Light whips around, sneering.
“Six, ten.” He throws up his arms and bobs them right, left, in a pantomime of imbalanced scales. “What difference does the number make? You think I’m Kira, one hundred percent. All these percents are just your way of getting off.”
“Sixteen percent.” Dropping a sugar cube into his tea, L plucks up his spoon and stirs. “And you’re wrong. I have no intention of getting off on whether or not my suspicions are correct.”
Light makes a low thick noise, deep in the back of his throat, and L taps his spoon against his mug rim. In his chest simmers a particular malice, not poisonous but annoyed – almost worse in the end. As sick of the percentages and persecution Light claims to be, L is far, far, far more sick of being stuck in Japan with the golden little brat. While he likes to play the special birthday boy, hoarding his treats and sucking his most precious lollies, Light’s an even bigger bruiser in the spoiled baby playpen. Pushing back and putting Light on his pampered, metaphorical behind gives L a modicum of satisfaction. Does satisfaction then compare to “getting off,” Light’s crude way of stating his observation? Not to L. He just wants a little crumb or two off the bully cake, and now he’s got someone to bully who’s too short to taste the icing.
So to speak, or whatever. L hooks his finger in his lower lip, tugging while he watches Light sniffle into his stogy cup of cold coffee. Peeping him out the corner of his brown eyes, Light glares at L and takes a single sip before licking his lips. Oh, tasty that looks; L wouldn’t mind kissing off that obnoxious little pout.
“You’re mean to me all the time.” Light stirs his finger in his coffee. “And you get worse when the rest of the taskforce go home. It’s more than just your suspicions. I think you just like making my life hell.”
A smirk bites at L’s mouth, but he doesn’t let it up. Can’t let the clever ones know they’ve figured him out, or else they’ll get their fingies in his buttercream slices. Stifling the brief glee that Light pinpointed that yes, of course all L wants is to be a fly in his soup, the detective lets out a long sigh.
“Maybe you bring out a more mischievous side of me,” L says. “You are my first friend. I’m still finding the boundaries, and it’s been difficult to balance my work with our personal relationship. You understand my struggle, don’t you?”
“Your struggle?” A dark syrup melts over Light’s widened eyes and he laughs – a sound halfway between choke and hysteria. “You’re unbelievable. I’m literally being accused of murder, every day for the past few weeks, while you keep me trapped in this tower just to torture. Think of how I feel! Think of my struggle!”
L stalls, taps his fingers to their shared desk before shrugging.
“Sorry, I can’t put myself in your shoes,” he says. “I’ve never been accused of mass murder.”
His next jibe – “Your father seems to be fine with your struggle” – shatters under the weight of Light’s cup smacking into L’s cheek. Cool, viscous coffee splashes over his face, dribbles down his neck, and soaks into the vast, now-tainted white expanse of his shirt. L shudders and flops downward in his chair. Huh. Maybe he rang the little bell too many times, and the dog got too hungry after getting nothing. Light shoots from his chair, scrambling to pick up the shattered cup.
“Sorry, sorry,” he blubbers. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just got so angry. You make me so angry, Ryuzaki.”
“Hm.” L rubs fingers along the throb of his jaw. “My face hurts.”
“You understand why I did it, don’t you? You can’t keep pushing me like this. It’s too much stress for anyone to survive.”
“Anyone?” Elbows popping, L lifts himself and settles into a perch – vulture staring down on the living corpse of Light Yagami. A drop of coffee falls from his long nose and splashes – ping! – right in front of Light’s knees. “Or is it simply too much stress for Kira?”
The scream Light lets out is gnarled between gritted teeth. He throws the shattered cup to the ground again, blood mixing with coffee as the porcelain slivers slice his palms.
“What will it take?” Light stands, big shoulders, big chest, puffed into a great beast of a prisoner. “What will convince you I’m innocent? A lie detector test? A background check? Because being around me all the time has done nothing to assure you, or maybe you’re just too up your own ass to admit that you simply enjoy being cruel.”
Silence, true silence, lays over the room. L blinks, coffee caught in his lashes, and stares into the venomous hole that is Light’s anger. He tilts his head, catches where the corner of the other man’s lip trembles, and forms a plan. How does one catch a brat? Why, you put out a glue trap. Or was that rats? Index and thumb dug into the flesh, L worries his bruising jaw with a slight grin.
“Let me hypnotize you,” he says.
“What?” Air hisses out of Light’s ballooned chest and he curls down to his actual height. “Hypnosis? Like the carnival trick?”
“I’ve done it before.” L pats his knees. “Once or twice. In dire situations. And from how you’ve shouted and moaned, this sounds like a dire situation.”
Light pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling thickly, before releasing a sigh like a tea kettle. He shakes his head and crosses his arms. Someone doesn’t like how L’s arranged the blocks in the playpen.
“You’re absolutely unhinged,” Light says. “Hypnotize me? I wouldn’t let some sideshow magician show me a swirling disc and I’d hardly put your antics above a tuxedoed charlatan. There must be some other way.”
“Ah.” Pushing away from the desk, L drops both feet to the floor and stands. He steps around the porcelain slivers, tugging Light through them. The boy’s got shoes; he’ll be fine. “Unfortunately, the only way I’ll accept your innocence is either through hard evidence or verification through hypnosis. I’ve found it’s the only method which matches the level of truth a smoking gun provides.”
“The only method?” Light jerks the handcuff chain back, holding his arm to his chest. His eyes dart around the floor, wide now in thoughtfulness. L presses the tip of his tongue against his teeth, holding back a lustful notion: Light, believing him, following as he says.
“Confessions mean little to me, in honesty,” L continues. “Fear of being caught often overrides the guilt of lying but with hypnosis you can peel away the fear and get to the truth.”
Arm drooping to his side, Light stares into the coffee and cup strewn around them.
“You’re going to stare a hole into the floor.” The snipe darts out of L. He’s sick of this game; he wants out of the playpen. It’s dinner time.
“I think” – Light stops, shudders, and turns his big doe eyes on L – “I think you should hypnotize me then.”
…
L hypnotized one person in his whole life. For his fifteenth birthday, Watari handed him a junior magician’s kit and a schedule for piano lessons. According to the old man, having a creative skill widened a person’s emotional intelligence though L found both the classes and the instructor to be inhibiting his empathic abilities. Piano required a focus L assigned to few things outside investigation. He learned only Chopsticks and played even that at a terribly slow speed. His teacher, Mr. Becker, liked to wrap a ruler across L’s knobby teen knuckles for each wrong note.
Hypnotism was a lovely tool in the vengeful teen belt. After a show-and-tell with L’s Houdini Jr. pendulum, Mr. Becket smacked his own face with his cursed ruler for every off-key note L plunked. And L plunked many a bad note.
He can’t say the same ill-willed intentions poison his set up with Light. Instead, L directs the man to take the most comfortable seat in their bedroom – an overstuffed armchair with a warm leather smell. Light settles in, chest still locked off by stiff arms as he follows L around with suspicious eyes. Not that it slows L, of course. Untucking a cigar box from deep in his dresser, L lifts the lid and removes a handkerchief. It unwraps around a bullet hung on a thin silver chain. When he turns, Light catches the bullet’s dull shine and winces.
“Is that a bullet?” Light curls in the armchair.
“A pendulum.” L sits on edge of the bed and holds up the bullet by its chain. “But, in a past life? Yes.”
“How macho.” Eyebrow raised, Light smirks. L matches the expression, his own insides churning in grotesque glee.
He’s always enjoyed putting brats in their place – big ones, small ones, all wrong-doers boil down to brats with unspanked bottoms. To manage this creature into his correct state is a matter of mere conviction – his against Light’s. And L has the truth on his side: Light is Kira. Buried in those gray tangles of brain matter is a door behind which Light stuffed his evil deeds. He won’t torture the key out of the kid – no, no. L finds torture mostly trickery through pain. Pull a fool’s nails off and a fool’s answer will still come forth. But to unlock the truth, to lift the doormat and find under it a little brass key, that can’t be done through torture. No, L aims to have Light let him in the front door himself.
“Are you okay?”
Licking his dry lips, L startles under Light’s prodding question. He laughs – quiet for too long, hm, Lawliet – and drifts his finger into a rhythmic rocking. The bullet swings, back and forth, and Light drops into its pull. Hook, line, and –
“This was in me once.” L draws out his words, slowing them in his deep rumble. “Shoulder. Took several surgeries to remove every piece but this one? Almost the full shell, still intact.”
“Huh. Is that why you” – Light trails off, smacking his lips.
“Finish the question.” To avoid drawing himself in, L stares at Light’s right ear. Rounded, with the lobe attaching to his neck. Was that ear sensitive? L pictures nipping the shell, the skin tasting salty and soft.
“Is the bullet why you hunch over?” Both hands drape over the chair arms, and Light scrunches his face for a deep sniff. “I notice you hunch more on one side than the other.”
“Very observant,” L nods. “It’s one reason. I also just feel more comfortable hunching. Do you feel comfortable right now, Light?”
“Mm.” A slow, nervous nod. “Yeah. I’m comfortable.”
“Take a deep breath in through your nose,” L says. “Hold for four seconds, then release. I want you to keep those deep breathes up, in through the nose, hold for four, then release. Keep them up as you watch the pendulum.”
Another nod, this one curter, comes as Light takes his first deep inhale. His rhythm is impeccable, which hardly surprises L. Light is an honor student to the bone – following what he’s told comes most natural, as being obedient earns him love. Weeks of watching the older and younger Yagami men is evidence enough. Soichrio tames a good brat, though L doubts he’d ever realize his gift.
“Tense your jaw.” L squints, finds the tightness in Light’s mouth. “Good. Now relax”
That sharp jawline softens along with all Light’s other facial muscles. His face in repose is open, pleasant.
“Tense your shoulders.” The order marches from L into Light’s ear, followed by its brother, “Relax.” They come out one by one, working at every limb with fork until Light sinks in the armchair – a tenderized piece of pretty meat. His eyelashes flutter – a butterfly stuck in honey, a rat stuck in glue – and threaten to close.
L keeps swaying the pendulum. “Still with me, Light?”
“Yeah.” Under his half-shut lids Light’s eyes dart – following the pendulum in spirit. “Just sleepy.”
“Listen to my voice.” L drops his tone lower, a thrum of a voice. “You like to hear my voice, don’t you? You want to do whatever my voice tells you.”
“Uh-huh.” Light drifts, almost dropping his head to his shoulder before catching himself. “Want to listen to what your voice tells me.”
There it is. Sinker. Holding up his hand, L presses his thumb against his index and middle fingers.
“Picture a door in the back of your head,” he says. “Whatever kind of door you like best, and on the door is a knob. Something very important is behind that door, isn’t there?”
A slow huff trickles out of Light’s mouth and he nods.
“I don’t want to open the door,” Light mumbles. “I’m not supposed to.”
“But I want you to open that door for me,” L says. “If you open that door, you’ll feel so much better. When I snap my fingers, Light, you will open the door and let out whatever is behind it.”
Light sucks in a hard breath, the first one to mar his rhythmic inhales, and his voice is small, pitiable.
“No, no, please,” he says. “I’m not supposed to. I’m not supposed to.”
Shaking his head, L snaps his fingers.
“Open the door,” he orders.
Light snaps into a rigid bend, his head thrown over the chair back and legs stuck straight out. His frozen posture is supernatural and L drops the bullet, hopping to his feet to grab Light before he falls. The haste is unwarranted; no sooner does he come to Light’s side that the man melts into chair, draping his leg over one overstuffed arm with a big grin cut across his face.
“Knock, knock,” Light purrs. “Gonna invite me in?”
“Welcome.” L drops to face level, examining the mirror countenance of his suspect – though this version simmers at a different temperature. “How do you feel then?”
“So relaxed.” Hand carding through his hair, Light sighs and tilts toward L. “And happy.”
L cocks his head to the side. Twin splotches of red bleed over Light’s cheeks, and his eyes are dewy – not exactly the evil mastermind he expected. He falls back onto the edge of the bed, thumb on his lower lip, and watches Light wriggle his limbs.
“What was behind the door, Light?”
“Mm, nothing.” Light laughs. “Just me.”
“Just you?” Frowning, L crosses his arms and leans back. “And who are you?”
“I’m me.” Light licks his lips and crosses his legs, squeezing his thighs together. “I’m what’s behind the door.”
“Are you Kira?”
A furious sigh rips out of Light, who rolls his eyes with his whole body. His hands dance down his legs, clawing into his knees as Light rocks forward. Auburn hair scatters over his eyes, though they shine just as bright when he fixes them on L.
“I don’t want to talk about Kira.” Light smacks his palms on his knee caps with sharp little pops. “I don’t want to talk about the case.”
Oh good. Light’s using his hypnosis time to have a tantrum in the playpen when L had it booked for his own successful temper fit. What poor luck.
“Then what do you want to talk about?” Arms cinching tighter over his torso, L scoffs. “Want to release all your pent-up complaints about my work?”
“I don’t want to talk.” The hiss is brilliant, a stranger to Light’s usual easy indifference. “I want to show you my tits.”
“Wait.” L’s limbs loosen. “You want to show me?”
He lets out a strangled gasp as Light drags his sweater off. It flies over the chair back, joined by his stiff white binder. Two perfect perky breasts jostle free, their swell set off by the ripened red flush of being stuffed under fabric all day. L fumbles, no words to say as his eyes gobble up the sight of Light cupping both tits, rolling their supple weight in his clever hands. He’s seen the flesh before when they share showers or dress for bed – always in the businesslike hurry of two colleagues forced into closeness. Lashes fluttering – a butterfly on the wind, a rat across a dark floor – Light bounces his sweet breasts once with a shallow moan. On display, all for his benefit, they cast a spell on L that he doesn’t want to fight.
“I want you to touch me,” Light drips out, lips glimmering from a tongue swipe. “I want you to touch them.”
“You can’t mean that.” With a laugh, L shakes his head and drops his forehead to the heel of his hand. “No. No, you can’t mean that at all.”
“Please.” Light pouts, thumbing his peach-pit nipples. L imagines them rolling on his tongue, their tips just as sweet as though soaked in fruit juice. Urging them forward, Light pushes his tits together and rubs, their warmed skin probably perfect for titty-fucking, motor-boating. “Please touch my tits, L.”
“Fuck,” L groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His shoulders are at his ears, blood thrumming in his arms and chest, and those breasts do beg for his groping. Ah. Well. Maybe Kira will surrender easier with a cock between his soft tits.
L rushes forward, grabbing Light by the knee to pull himself across the gap. Light’s feet flatten on the floor, taking the pressure, and drops his head back as L licks the seam where his breasts kiss together. Burying his face into the softness, L sucks in a long whiff of boy – sweat, musk, a hint of earth. He nuzzles deeper, vibrating the flesh with his breath and rubbing his nose against Light’s chest. Urgent mewls drag him back from his aborted motorboat attempt and Light splays his hands over his tits, framing both nipples between spread fingers.
Spit wells under L’s tongue. For fuck’s sake – his mouth is watering. Hungry and sloppy, he kisses the left one first and suckles, relishing its nimble weight as it perks on his tongue. The right nipple receives his fingers, pinching and thumbing the tightened bud as it firms up good and juicy. Switching sides, L licks and sucks both peach pits with hands kneading breast tissue, urging the soft give as though milking Light in his moaning, pleasured state.
“Oh L,” Light moans. “Bite my nipples. Make them hurt.”
“You want me to hurt you?” L nips one pebbled bud, teasing it between his teeth as Light drifts his heavy gaze down to the man fondling him.
“Yes.” Sucking his lower lip between his teeth, Light nods. “Pierce them. Mark my nipples so I know they’re yours.”
Grinning, L drags his tongue tip around a quivering areola. Oh, he can do that.