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Little by little, L notices Light losing his inhibitions when they are cuffed together.
It’s in how Light looks at him when he thinks L is too far gone in his work. It’s in the way he tentatively shuffles closer to him; hesitant, at first, as to where the boundaries lie, then daring, when he realizes that L doesn’t really adhere to the universal standards of personal space.
He touches L more, or rather, he is open to L more. L has never taken Light to be an affectionate person, but he takes note of how Light’s body leans toward him, taking up more and more of the space between them as the days pass and the weeks begin to blur. His hands splay on the bedsheets when he falls asleep as if outstretched to L and waiting for the detective to turn in at night.
(When L looks at those smooth, long hands he thinks of how he wants to hold them, palm-to-palm. He thinks of the very same hands killing hundreds and hundreds of people.)
Light’s attention on him has always been there. But where Light’s truth had been locked behind that calculated glint of his, now it’s held back not for a greater purpose of victory but, L suspects, because of fear.
Of what? Rejection? The fact that they simply cannot be?
They both know this:
L suspects Light is Kira. Light, ever since they’ve been cuffed together, and despite denying the accusation vehemently, has never once went out of his way to prove that he is not.
They both know that Light, with all his excellence, can put together a completely curated evidence that he is not Kira, if he is not actually Kira. And that’s the problem. Light knows the extent of the gaps in his memories. Light is very much aware of the possibility that he is Kira.
L has never been wrong in his life. This time, he finds himself thinking of how it would turn out if he’s not right for once.
When Light finally kisses him one night after the Task Force has turned in for bed, L briefly entertains all the ramifications of this before he shuts them out.
Later, when Light is sleeping soundly on his side of the bed, he stays awake for a long time as he mulls over everything.
It doesn’t matter, L decides. Either way, only one of them will win. If it’s going to be L, then he might as well do this before Light, or Kira, is caught and executed. If Light’s going to be the one to win, then what’s the point of him living out his final days cowering from the fire that’s going to burn him anyway?
They are starving creatures, but it’s not a matter of bodily hunger; more often than not they find themselves drawing back from each other to discuss a thought that has suddenly entered and piqued their minds.
On the times that they don’t stop, though, L marvels at how in tune they are with each other. When he kisses him he knows what Light is thinking. When they move together he feels as if they are one in all aspects, mind and body and soul.
Most people, he thinks, go through all their life without forming that kind of connection.
It’s Light, almost always, who reaches out. It’s Light who leads, it’s Light who initiates, and it’s L, almost always, who decides.
It’s Light who says it first. Did I manifest you?
L smiles at that, and even before he looks up from his laptop to meet Light’s gaze he knows they’re both already thinking the same thing.
Kira. God complex. Twenty-eight per cent.
It’s L who says it in his natural self-assured manner. Light-kun, maybe God made us for each other.
They share a secret look at the choice of words on L’s side, and they reach for each other without actually touching one another.
Their brilliance is their common ground, yet at the same time it is also their individuality. When L brings up the topic of Light being Kira, this time asking for Light’s input on the matter rather than simply accusing him, Light merely says, I know. Like it’s never been a question of whether Light is Kira or not.
What are you going to do about it?
What are you going to do about it? Light counters.
Well, it’s a race, isn’t it?
Yes, Light agrees. Yes, it is.
L thinks, then, of how Light is so different from Kira and yet not at all. And he thinks of how he is so similar to Kira and yet not at all.
When Light touches the notebook, L waits it out. The scream goes on for longer than he predicts, and when Light quiets down, L thinks, there you are.
He doesn’t look his way. He can’t bring himself to.
He knows for a certainty that this might very well be the moment he loses.
L doesn’t expect Light to follow him to the rooftop, nor stay there when the rain begins to pour in earnest. When they get inside, he falls to his knees. His wet hair drips water on Light’s skin and he stares at the bead of liquid as he wipes Light’s foot.
He answers the unvoiced question in Light’s mind. It’s the least I can do to atone for my sins.
Light’s lips are cold against his. L’s fingertips found the pulse on his neck, and Light pulls him closer.
When he topples off his chair only a few hours later, it’s Light who catches him.