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Sitting limp, there he is. Shadows are all that can reach him. The confinement has been long, merciless. Windows haven’t been opened since his arrival. What if the polluted air proves itself to be damaging? The doll is frail. So frail.
L's feet are not firm on the floor, they are wiggly. Ever the slender figure, pressed against the wall, feeling its cold, thick surface bite every curved inch of his back, he is the cursed ghost, watching a beautiful creature. He is the only heavy presence in the room, with such a gutted soul and such a stuck resolve; he is the one haunting, bothering, pursuing someone—something that should be left to rest in peace. Cowardly so, on top of everything. Because L cannot bring himself to approach, to meet those eyes, for they are void of anything familiar, only stuffed with the dead weight of glass. Because that is Light, clumsily impaled, rotting. It's hard to face it. Reality and him.
One step. One step closer, and he can see the leathery skin shine. The sight does not make sense. Light Yagami had always been very mindful of his habits. His skin. Perfect. Every thin, soft hair that used to grow in his arms felt like silk whenever they brushed against L's own. They heated his ugly heart. But now, it's gone. A disgusting substance has coated everything. There is no hair and no youthfulness. It's not the same man. Yet this feels better than watching him decay, watching black spots eat away at him and his beauty. Was it truly himself that L had wished to protect in the end? Only one is dead now, but the answer remains unknown.
Another step closer. Light smells of burnt flowers. No, maybe a little stronger, maybe caramel that went wrong. Descending to his mouth, it doesn't taste like victory. It's an appealing dessert, a beautiful contradiction that looks sweet but tastes so bitter. A victory by all means, but not satisfactory in the least. Sacrifices were made. Meaningless to worry, he will die soon, he knows, but it’s like poking a wound. He likes to deepen it because it's certain to heal. Infections are unlikely to happen to someone as sterile as him. Pain does not make him cry.
Once sharp as a razorblade, Light’s lips now rest in a pale beige. The smirk that he always turned his head away to hide will never be seen again, and L is somewhat content over the lack of secrets between them. Light will never lie again. He won’t ever speak again, and L will not be praised by things only he understands. With a feather-like heart, he continues walking, and this time he doesn’t stop until he can see the top of his head. And even then, he presses closer, he collapses in slack, cold arms.
L tucks his knees under his chin, curls up into himself on Light’s lap. The cadaver had been carefully placed against the headboard, so he is still sitting, supporting L’s weight. From such an intimate proximity, all imperfections are visible. The golden specks in Light’s irises are far too bright, surreal. Under the sun, the real orbs used to shine red. Under artificial light, a romantic brown. Never anything else. Whatever substantial desserts that lie on L’s stomach begin twisting and turning, quirking up to his throat, far warmer than all the things that surround him at this very moment. No breathing mingles with his own. He swallows the vomit.
Outside, the world is falling to pieces. Criminals are falling back into line, more so than ever before. The crime rates which, in the matter of a few months, Kira had diminished almost 30%, were sure to rise again very soon. It has only been a few days since his ‘arrest’ was made public, and already, overwhelming loads of cases have been flooding L. L doesn’t touch his laptop, especially not after reading the reports about certain bioterrorists. Doesn’t touch anything really, except for the nape of Light’s neck. They are closer now. Despite everything, guilt doesn’t haunt him. Light killed many. Light is dead. L will die in days. Humanity seems to be living its last days as well. For such an insignificant existence, L decides to be selfish. Because, in the end, even with his victory over Kira, he feels defeated. Victory came with many murders, with deaths that were not necessary, with many things that simply should not have happened, and L feels upset. It was not flawless, not perfect, nothing like his work. He is bitter. Leaning in and closing the distance, Light tastes bitter.
His tongue is curious. Like a kitten’s, it licks all around the place, feeling up the flesh inside the dead mouth. The temperature is no surprise. But Light’s teeth are the same. That one crowded back tooth amidst the well-formed others, a childish charm, beholden only by his mother, his sister, his girlfriends, and L, is there. Tastes like nothing at all. He continues exploring.
It’s not exciting, but L shifts his position anyway. He straddles Light, thighs locked tight around his hips. Would this be enjoyable in different circumstances? He doesn’t know. But now there is heat starting to stir down his aching core, and so he moves against the stiff corpse, arching back and forth mindlessly. From the lack of satisfaction, L can tell he's doing it wrong. Is there a right way to do this with your dead lover? Or perhaps, the lack of satisfaction comes from something else entirely. For the first time in his life, L doesn't know, yet L keeps going.
The room is filled with slurping noises and nothing else. Silence was never a threat to L. It aided him, most of the time. Now, it makes him acutely aware of the body he is pressing against. There is no arousal anymore. Not when Light doesn't grip him in return, doesn't kiss him senseless, and is unable to reach deep inside him forever. He stops grinding. He doesn't feel ashamed. Simply feels a small amount of self-disgust. His head now rests on Light's chest.
Light would laugh at him. At his odd sitting position, at the unnatural angles his body is bent in. At the ridiculousness of it all. Then he would pat his back and gently let go. L does not think about that, he is dead after all, and there is nothing he can do to mock him. All that he thinks about, if only for a brief second, is about reversed roles. Were L the dead one, would Light wish to preserve him too? In all truth, perhaps they spent far too little time together for a pretentious teenager like him to get this attached. But then again, neither of them was mature, and L cannot deny that, as a suspect, Light stared for a little too long. And without fear. Just interest.
The broken watch on his wrist looks back at him. It only says it's time to drift away. So L coops up into the crouch that is always more comfortable to sleep in, keeps their bodies close, and remains unblinking. There is a stain on his otherwise clean sheets. It's filthy. It's all he can look at. That is how he sleeps, waiting, thinking, struggling, and suffering. Knowing it will happen soon enough.