Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

- Dylan Thomas

*

Light Yagami had been the owner of the Death Note for three months when he noticed the first feather.

A spindle of twine and plume, lying innocently on his pristine white pillow on a Tuesday morning after he’d woken up. The spine was tiny, a small, sharp pinprick, the tufts of feathery air hardly visible. A trial run.

He assumed it had come off of his clothes somewhere, a piece of lint. Light picked it up carelessly, tossing it into his bin, and collected his things to go school, picking up his bag on the way out. He didn’t think about it again for the rest of the week. Not when he had better things to do.

God couldn’t spare a single thought.

*

The next was equally as innocuous. Light had finished his prep class, and was heading home in his leisurely, unhurried walk. His mind was reeling; mentally, he was a coiled spring, a loaded gun, a flame which he wanted to burn into the pages of the Death Note. It was slowly becoming an extension of him, its presence a comforting fixation, utterly no where but everywhere at the same time; in his pocket, in his home, festering in his mind. Ryuk served as a permanent haunting of the thing that had allowed him life, given him existence; without it, Light felt like nothing.

It was enchanting, power. Completely intoxicating, and Light had always given himself into his addictions, like a child on too loose of a leash. The reins to the world had been handed to him on a silver platter, and he was high on its freedom. The Death Note, he felt, had morphed him into what he was truly destined to be, on his self-made pedestal, watching the humans move and act on the stage that was the world, and he made them drop dead once he was bored with them.

L would be his puppet. Light would hold all the strings. The Death Note had promised him so.

He continued on his walk, the wintery air biting at him. When he arrived home, he was greeted by the familiar sight of his mother, beaming at him, and it made Light feel sick.

“So? Your results?” She practically stammered, looking at him expectedly, as if anything but the expected was going to happen. Light wondered what would happen if one day he returned and had failed an exam- he wanted to see his parents expectations collapse in on themselves like dying stars.

He sighed, and pulled out his latest set of mock tests for his upcoming college exam. As he reached into his bag to pull out the papers, a small, charcoal black feather tumbled out alongside it. It floated to the floor, inconspicuous and unseen. A predecessor. A paradigm.

Light didn’t notice it, and after the regular few minutes of talk Light allocated to his mother everyday, he returned upstairs, Ryuk’s laugh slowly becoming the soundtrack of of his life.

The feather was laid out in the front hallway. It stayed there all evening, and all morning, and for most of the next day, until Sachiko Yagami noticed it, tutted, and quickly threw it away.

*

Winter had come and gone, but Kira had been born and raised.

He had passed L’s surveillance of him; he knew that nothing would come of it. He had acted perfectly, smoothed over every facial expression and tic into nothingness, had become and worn the skin of straight A high school student, likeable Light Yagami. It was hard to slot himself back into the person he used to be; hollow and subdued. It was as if the container that had previously held him had now become too small, his dreams too substantial, and he could no longer fit into that shell, that husk of a person. The writing of names on his piece of Death Note was a reminder that he was someone else now. Kira. Light Yagami was slowly melting into nothingness, right before his eyes.

It was Ryuk who noticed it. Light was sat at his desk, in his school uniform, listening to the excerpts of newly announced criminals being broadcast on television. The news speaker’s voice was a constant background monotony, but Light treated their word like gold. His hand had started to ache one hour in, but thankfully he had taught himself to be ambidextrous a long time ago, a skill that he had recently become very thankful for.

His writing became scrawls on the lines of the Death Note, his lettering slowly becoming more haphazard, and yet he continued, marching on into the flames of his idealism.

He was shaken out of it by Ryuk., as he too often was these days. Whilst the Shinigami was only useful in certain, selective situations, it served as a constant hindrance. It was one of the only flaws to the Death Note; it kept Light from ever believing it was ever truly his, and only his.

“You’ve certainly gotten passionate, Light.” Was all it said, in its scratchy, coarse voice. It was sat on his bed, in its usual position, watching Light at random intervals. Light could feel its eyes boring into his back.

“Yes, Ryuk.” Were the only words he offered back to it, too lost to remember language, only the letters that spelt out names, that were tied to people, that meant death, that sated his thirst like warm blood spilling down his throat-

“Every human, eventually, gets like this. Even the ones that don’t really use it that much. Pretty sure its supposed to be like that.” Ryuk’s clawed hands created divots in Light’s sheets.

“What do you mean by that, Ryuk?” It had stilled him a little. For a few moments. His pen stopped on the paper.

“Like this, y’know. Obsessive, and stuff. Like they’re addicted to it. I understand, I’m like that with apples, but the Death Note affects humans differently than it does us. I never feel like I have to use the thing, out of enjoyment. You’ve grown to love it Light, haven’t you?”

The words settled on him like a heavy, weighted blanket. It made his lungs feel sluggish, almost comatose. He knew he had created an attachment to the Note; but it was a piece of him, a part of him, as if over these months the names had become stitches that had allowed the Death Note to become woven his heart and mind, a permanent fixture. He loved the growing, building power it had given him; it had gifted him life, purpose, existence. In return it had given him ambition; festering, unkillable hunger for names, death, more-

“Even the ones that don’t want to use it fall eventually, I’ve seen it. They give in, and for some reason, it hooks them in.” Ryuk said this almost jovially. It couldn’t care less, that much was obvious, for the effect of the supernatural Death Note on the shatterable human mind. It just made the game more interesting; the humans couldn’t resist playing.

“Are you saying that… The Death Note is compelling me to use it?” Light didn’t care that much either. He was going to use the book whether it wanted him to or not. But it would be an interesting piece of information to have for the future. And also, the idea of this… object infiltrating his mind and his decisions was a deeply unpleasant one. He did not want to be controlled and used by this thing, wanted to control and use it instead.

“More than that. It changes you so you want to use it, always. Though that isn’t a problem for you, Light, I told you that the Death Note will change you. You will constantly feel the need to use it. You will not be able to have a human afterlife. I once heard someone say that the Death Note has the ability to change humans so much that they slowly become Death itself. But that was just a rumour, of course.” Ryuk had the ungainly ability to speak as if the words it were saying were nothing more than comments about the weather. It was said casually, without stopping, a normal speech from a thing like Ryuk.

Light’s breath hitched. He hadn’t, really, thought about the Death Note itself all that much. He was surprised when it worked, obviously, but he had just accepted the role of Shinigami and murderous notebooks easily. Now he wondered if it was the Death Note itself that had quelled the blow for him; that had soothed his queries, that had urged him on.

“Is it sentient?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. It’s kind of unexplainable. It just sort of exists.”

Light nodded, all of a sudden feeling light headed. He decided that that was enough for the day. He put the leather bound book back into his secret compartment, closed the drawer, and stood from his desk, stretching out his back. Even now, he could feel the whispering in his ear. An itch in his neck. A feeling curling in his fingertips.

“Ah, Light. Theres a feather in your hair.” Ryuk was gleeful, jumping up from the bed to pluck the errant feather out of Light’s brunet hair, with taloned claws and stained fingernails. Its smile was stretched wider, its unblinking red eyes crinkling with its grin, turning to look at Light, chuckling.

This time, it was larger. Black wisps still encircled the central spine, forming plumes, longer and more defined. Still virtually invisible, unremarkable, and yet it had wound its way into Light’s hair, stuck between the strands, trapped like a fly in a cobweb.

Light snatched it out of the Shinigami’s talons. It was weightless, but existent, and starting to spin its ribbons into Light’s life. A charcoal black feather, this time a warning. An ominous caution.

“A feather.” Was all he remarked, because in the moment, thats all it was for him. A singular black feather, spun in his slender hands and gifted fingers, like an exhibit.

He didn’t keep this one either. Ryuk took it back, blowing it away with large gusts of air from its neverending mouth, causing the feather to twitch and shake and move around the room.

Light left to go downstairs and get something to eat. His stomach was begging him to. Ryuk stayed, laughing to itself, eventually causing the feather to float away out into the open balcony, the wind claiming it for its own. It fluttered away, into the sky.

*

“You know Ryuk, I might have seriously considered the deal if you’d offered me wings instead of eyes. Just the idea of flying around freely in the sky sounds very godlike. After all it’s been mankind’s dream since antiquity to be able to fly.”

“You’d stand out if you sprouted wings and flew around. Not to mention the police would have no trouble finding you.”

“I was only joking. Anyway, if I keep bargaining for eyes and wings and whatever else, next thing you know I’ll end up becoming a real Shinigami. Though who knows, I bet that could be pretty interesting."

“I wouldn’t worry. Even without the eyes and the wings, you are already a worthy Shinigami.”

*

There was a rolling drum beat pounding in Light’s head. It was a rhythm, a chant, and a calling.

When he slept, he could hear it. Like the sea rushing against his skull, the waves crashing against his eardrums, overflowing into his head. There was no humanity in it; it was as if the noise was drawing out every voice, even his own, and all that was left was the want. It sunk into him like a parasite, biting and gnawing at him, living off of his brain, his unshakeable intelligence.

Light Yagami was the singular flame, the spark, and currently all the moths were suffocating him.

*

On the four month anniversary of Light discovering the Death Note, it greeted him with a feather needle stabbed into his back.

He convulsed, shot up in bed, immediately pulling his shirt over his head. It was the middle of the night, his hair falling into his eyes in disarray. The sharp pain in his back had jolted him from his sleep; whatever it was, it was slowly sinking into his skin the more he had laid in bed.

Hardly lucid from sleep, he reached around his back to feel for the thing that was causing spikes of pain to shoot up his spine. In the darkness, he was unable to locate it; scrambling to turn on his lamp, Light got up entirely out of bed, walking quickly to his mirror in the low light.

Light prided himself on appearance. Every morning he preened over his hair, his uniform, his features, preparing his mask for the play before setting out to school. Every hair must be in place, to secure the illusion, as to not shatter the mirage.

Now, however, was a different experience entirely. He spun around, glaring at his back in the mirror.

A small trail of his own blood was moving down his back, leaving stained red chasms in its wake. The stream of blood was slowly advancing towards his waist band. Its source was a singular puncture wound near his nape, and jammed inside it was a black feather, its spine coated in crimson.

Light grimaced, his back muscles twitching with each movement. The pain flared down his back periodically, as if reminding him of its presence, translating its motive into human terms such as pain. This was a stubborn deterrent. This was a threat.

Wincing, he clutched the needle of the plume in his fingers, and after taking a few shallow breaths, pulled it out of the flesh in his back. It came out uneasily, leaving a jagged wound, and immediately Light dropped the thing as if it burned. His hands wrapped around his neck, trying to stop the bleeding from the puncture, feeling his own hot blood dribbling down his fingernails and onto the palms of his hands. A twisting, gnarling feeling became tangled in his chest, the parasite having moved, and struck.

“What…” The words tumbled out of his mouth involuntarily, said in a rushed whisper, utterly in disbelief.

The feather at his feet was almost double the size of the last. The black wisps had become knots, defined braids that lanced out from the central spine, now sharp and pointed. Light’s blood was thickening on its knitted threads, dripping down the needle and onto his floorboards. It had become bold, confident.

With one hand still pressed against his nape, he bent down to pick up the offender with his now blood-stained hands. The bright rivulets adorning his palms were a stark contrast to the ebony black of the feather, warring with each other, clashing bitterly.

He gripped it with anger as well as annoyance, letting his confusion bleed through. He was at a loss for words, lost looking for an explanation, because he didn’t know what he could possible think to describe what was happening.

He found the shirt he had been wearing that night; similarly stained crimson, as if he was stabbed with tiny pinpricks whilst he slept. Light pressed it against his neck, trying to soak up any last remaining dregs of blood. Silently, trying to even out his breathing, he went to his bathroom, his hands shaking as he wet a damp cloth and began cleaning off blood from his back.

He watched himself in the mirror in a slight trance, the pain very real but also very far away. The feather watched from the sink where he had placed it, running it under the tap to purge it of his blood, the blackness now wet and in disarray. Hurriedly, he washed down the skin of his back, the dark stains of blood slowly disappearing under his fingertips, but the image remained etched in his mind. Being punctured, not seeing the culprit, bleeding out-

Light’s hands had stopped shaking by the time he found a plaster to cover the wound. By that time it had ended its stream of blood, now seemingly quenched, but every few movements he could feel it twinge, sending sparks down his back, sending messages to his brain.

He returned to his room. In the low lighting, Light placed the feather down onto his bed, staring at it, as if it were about to come alive. He didn’t feel like he was imagining the malice emanating from the thing. He couldn’t be. How would a feather have gotten stuck in his neck in the first place? Was Sayu playing a practical joke of some sort, involving feathers? It couldn’t have been her; he doubted his sister would stab him forcefully in the back with a feather, allowed him to bleed continuously in his sleep.

He was exhausted. Light felt his brain stir sluggishly, but it was the middle of the night, and he was feeling light headed. There was a haziness to his eyesight, the sides of his vision becoming blurry, the feather morphing and expanding and disappearing all at once.

Feeling a wave of repulsion whilst holding the thing, Light took the pinion and placed it in one of his desk drawers. He felt the urge to slam it shut, never look at it again, burn it.

He took the blood-soaked shirt and placed it on the back of his chair, the only piece of evidence that proved Light was still mortal; that it was still blood that ran through his veins, that Light was still a teenage boy whilst Kira was the immortal God.

He slipped back into bed, breaths falling heavily. He was deeply unsettled, shaken, and the movements of his back muscles caused blooms of pain to ripple into his skin. As soon as he closed his eyes, the familiar rush of the drum beat began between his ears; not as loud, now a whisper, slight tapping and a melodious promise.

It seemed satisfied.

*

Light had tried to write off the event as a result of his greatly heightened work ethic lately that had caused him stress, combined with some sort of hallucination or tweaking of his mind due to the Death Note. Now that Ryuk had pointed it out, he was becoming increasingly suspicious of the things affect on his mental state; he needed to know just how much ‘change’ Ryuk meant. He couldn’t afford to sacrifice his sanity or stability for the Death Note. He could not accomplish his goals if he was going to be driven to insanity by them. He could not live whilst hallucinating feathers being jammed into his neck.

The day after, he had a small mark, almost like a bruise, where the wound had been. He traced his fingers over it; only the last dregs of pain had stirred and risen to the surface. When writing in the Note that night, he could’ve sworn that he had felt it awakening again, the beast rearing its head, and he had to stop writing for a few minutes as his hand seized whilst writing names. As a result, he killed a few people less that night. Once he had stopped, hidden away the book, he had felt the pain suddenly dissipate, melt back and settle down.

Two days after the incident, the mark was gone, his neck unscarred.

About the blood-ridden shirt, he told his mother that he had had a nosebleed and used his shirt to clean up the blood in a moment of desperation. She had tutted, shaken her head, said some benign comment about how blood was impossible to get out of clothes, and Light had promptly left.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate in his room when the Note was there in his desk drawer. Sometimes Light felt that his thoughts bled into each other, the letters and words mixing until none of it made sense, and he couldn’t steer his thoughts straight. His emotions reached a peak whenever he was closest to the object; suddenly being overcome by greed, his mind racing, heart rate quickening. At some points, he became incredibly nauseous.

His damage control was to spend as little time as possible in his room, where he had to keep the Death Note. Taking slips of it was manageable enough; its power seemed to diminish if it was just the piece of paper he carried with him in his wallet. He would, instead, take as many excuses as he could to be out of his room, take long walks where he would finally be able to organise his thoughts and create ways to combat L, memorise names and faces outside of his room so that he could quickly write them down in the Note and then promptly shut it away again. He took to going to the library, his excuse to his parents that it held better material for him to study, when really he was simply cherishing a space where he didn’t feel as if the parasite inside him was rotting away and taking chunks off his brain.

Ryuk watched in a sort of rabid fascination. It would take to harassing Light rather than just annoying him, a constant observer to the affect the Note was having on the human, croaking out jeers and taunts and comments about what was happening. Light got the impression that it was enjoying, or at least, interested somewhat in how Light was acting now. The appearance of the feathers had definitely intrigued the Shinigami, and it seemed to constantly be on the hunt, looking for tufts of feathers that would mysteriously appear out of no where.

Light did not like living in this new state of paranoia. It was not like him, and it also distracted him from what was really important; his dream, and capturing L, and creating schemes to rival the others. Light had not been expecting the Lind L.Taylor incident; it had left him furious, livid, ready to tear and write and kill-

It was the end of March, and spring was in full bloom. The flowers suddenly budding along the street and on his kitchen table at least gave Light the stability of time; that it was passing, it was blooming, and that one day he will reach his goal, will flourish and lead the world as his own.

That was the thought currently turning over in his mind as Light Yagami smoothed down his hair in the mirror, perfectly arranged it to his taste. The morning was bright, bright compared to the dismal winter that had just passed, and the trees were already expressing a verdant green. It was the day of the To-Oh University Entrance Ceremony, and Light was dressed to perfection, his mask sealed, his face taut. Even inside he felt little.

He reached in to feel the piece of the Death Note in his blazer pocket. Just tracing his fingers around the edges, to feel the grooves, gave a sort of balance, cohesion.

He felt his slender fingers brush against something else. The familiar tufts of a sable black feather, his fingertips scraping against the hard spine, now recognisable by texture and touch alone. An observer. An eyewitness.

He had spent too many nights feeling the ridges of the pinion that had ended up in his nape, had twisted the thing in his hand, trying to understand more from it. He waited as if the thing would give up its secrets, confess in Light’s presence. To no avail.

Light sighed, scowling at the return of the object. This time it had just appeared in his blazer pocket- was it somehow bound with the Death Note, in that feathers would appear close to where the book was? He needed to find out how he could-

At that moment, Sayu and his mother bounded into his room, both with equally matching expressions of hopefulness and excitement. They urged him on, Sayu with her large eyes, beaming smile and good nature.

“Good luck, Light! I’m sure you’re gonna be perfect, as always!”

The black feather in his pocket stayed there for the whole day. It lasted throughout the ceremony, twisting itself closer to the piece of paper in Light’s pocket. Both lay innocently above Light’s heart, the Note murmuring to it, the feather watching. This one was just here to observe.

By the end of Light’s first day at To-Oh University, he was ready to sell his heart to either one of them.

*

Fury. It burned him hot and cold, furious and bitter, a churning inferno that rose from his stomach.

Light had been utterly humiliated. He hadn’t expected L to appear before him, like a haunting ghost, dressed in slack jeans and an oversized shirt, and say something absurd like “I’m L.” As simple as that. It had completely shaken him, thrown off his inward poise for a second, his mind rearing in uproar, because what? Whether it was truly L himself or a stand-in, it still presented a great threat, and Light felt his plans shatter like broken glass.

He threaded his hands through his hair in frustration, ruining his immaculate appearance. The anger had been simmering within him the whole ride home, and as soon as he’d stepped inside his room, he’d felt it boil and overflow, completely consuming him. The fury was enveloping him, causing his hands to shake, his grip tightening on the roots of his hair, just to feel his anger come out on something, just to feel something other than the burning rising from his stomach.

“Fuck!”

Ryuk was staying strangely silent, watching from his corner of the room, eyes wide, tracking Light’s movements across the room.

“He got me! He completely humiliated me! I can’t do anything!”

Light’s voice was rising in tandem with his emotions. His hair was now in disarray; his suit creased; his natural calm mask shattered. Light was usually at home in his stoic assertiveness, his true emotions hidden completely in the shadows, and yet Ryuk was watching him snap. The man was unravelling, hands shaking on his desk, his emotions written plainly on his face, in every twitch in his body.

“If L dies now, even if this isn’t L, the police are going to suspect me. I never even… considered the probability that he would reveal himself to me on purpose. I thought we’d be chasing each other until I’d eventually be able to uncover him myself.” Light voice was bitter, heavily coated in frustration, the man gesturing wildly as he spoke.

The exasperation of the day was fuelling him. The sight of L, the man with the disorderly black hair and sunken in eyes, draped in those oversized clothes that hung off his thin frame. Just being sat next to him during that time in the hall- having to sit there knowing that L had caught him off guard, had broken him for a few moments with those few words coupled with his absurd appearance and ridiculous way of sitting, relit the anger inside him.

On auto-pilot, Light reached into his desk drawer, opening the compartment to pull out his Death Note, flipping open the book without pause. Blank, tidy lines stared back at him, just begging to be filled, to cry out names that spelt out another's demise, and just seeing the empty pages made him think of failure, made him see that he could have more, and he wanted it. He wanted it more than anything else, to see the world collapse around him, to leave it dry and empty, completely ruined by Light and Light only. A husk of Earth, his beautiful achievement, a trophy that he could keep. Everything gone. Everything dead. He could have everything at his fingertips, if only L would die. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die.

His fingers were taut in an enraged grip on his pen, as Light scrawled down a single letter, etching it harshly into the page until it was on the edge of ripping, his teeth gritted together-

L.

Forty seconds of staring at that letter, that symbol, the thing that stood for everything that was getting in his way. Not just the police- having to keep up his image, an act he had performed for years before the Death Note, having to act as Light Yagami, something he barely recognised. He was sick of subduing himself, having to chain down his ambition- of being controlled and stoic in the way he has forced himself to be. Surely, the Death Note was supposed to give him the opportunity to rip free of everything that was holding him down. Thats what being God is- all powerful, all mighty. So why was this happening?

Light felt nauseous, and the feeling mixed and swirled with his anger, though just writing down L had strangely given him some comfort. To at least be able to have the illusion that he had killed L, to see that man written and carved into the Death Note.

His thoughts clashed with each other, like symbals bashing in his ears, the feeling almost audible. His senses were a calamity, a dysphoric sensation where thought and feeling and touch and sound bled into one, horrific mess. It made bile rise in his throat, the nausea increasing, and still dressed in his crisp suit, Light raced to the bathroom, immediately collapsing against the sink.

Something coppery and burning was filling his mouth. It was raking against his tongue, dragging long, dark claws against his teeth, forcing out hisses of pain and agony. The liquid was vile, felt alive, and Light spat it out into the sink with disgust.

Red. Blood. Streaming down his mouth, into the porcelain sink, devouring his lips. Coating his teeth.

Light Yagami was throwing up blood.

It pooled, mixing with itself, creating paintings and patterns on the tiles of the bathroom floor. It was still writhing on his tongue, a searing pain in every corner of his mouth, and Light brought up one of his shaking hands to his lips, as if trying to convince himself it wasn’t happening.

He looked up into the mirror ahead of him. He saw himself; completely unravelled, blood pouring down his face, staining his face in a bloody murder scene. His hands were painted red.

Behind him, he saw a pair of jagged, black, feathered, wings.

The punishment.

Chapter Text

“The dead never truly die. They simply change form.”

- Suzy Kassem

*

He doesn’t hallucinate often; only when he’s most vulnerable, when Light is at his weakest.

Which, admittedly, isn’t that often. Even though his emotions seem to peaking and broiling more than they used to, definitely some sort of side effect of the Death Note, Light has long since mastered the art of not letting emotions rule him entirely. Outside of his room, he is just as perfect and polished as ever; every so often, trapped inside the confines of his four walls with the book, he cracks.

It’s unsettling. It’s unnatural. He hates it.

They only seem to appear whenever hes close to the note, signifying his proximity to the thing, and only when he feels as if he’s able to kill someone with his bare hands. When he craves the feeling of wrapping his hands around someone neck, wringing them dry, bring death upon everything he touches. The Death Note has saved him. The Death Note has defiled him.

Despite its affect on his mental state, and apparently the existence of his own pair of sable, wings, Light resorts to dodging around the problem. Whenever it happens- when he feels the unfurling in his back, the writhing knot from his spine that unfolds into existence, he can only push onwards, grip onto his pen with rabid determination. The longer he tries to push it down, drown the thing twisting in his lower back, the harder it is to concentrate on writing down names. He refuses to allow them to be set free; to declare them to the world.

They are a monstrosity. That time, they were small and fragile, thin, shook whenever he looked at them. They looked emaciated, under nourished, stripped bare, the feathers not fulling formed, hanging off the thin frame of the bones. Like he had taken a knife to them and whittled them down to the core of himself. They were painful as well, even though they didn’t feel fully there; like a fragment of himself that was separated from the whole. He didn’t touch them, he had felt too sick to do so.

It was horrifying, the first time. He had stared at them in horror, back searing in pain, and after a few blood-curdling, chilling moments, they had simply disappeared, folded back into themselves, back into whatever dark corner of Light they had come from.

They had often threatened manifesting, and Light could feel them uncurling within him. Mostly at times whilst his emotions had threatened boiling point, whilst he was writing in the Death Note, whilst L was alive and burning in his mind. Too alive, in Light’s opinion.

He was at the forefront of Light’s thoughts, more often then not. His appearance at his school, the others almost constant presence next to him on a daily basis, as if taunting him. Showing him how vulnerable he was, how easy it would be to win, and yet Light could do nothing. Try to evade the traps L set up for him, whilst acting innocent, whilst he wanted to declare he was Kira, spit the words at L’s feet, challenge him directly. Not hide behind innocence.

Yet, this was the game they were playing. The tennis match changed things. It made Light truly realise what he was going up against; for a second, he felt seen. Paralleled. As if L was tracing him, understanding him, reading his thoughts in a way no one else could. He hated it, hated feeling hunted down and targeted; but it was a different feeling to anything else he had ever experienced. For the whole game, he had forgotten about the things hidden in his back; the alternate reality where he had monsters growing out of him, signifying him a demon, when he wanted the angelic mirage of a God ready to ascend.

The conversation in the cafe, the atmosphere permeated with tension and challenge, and yet Light had found something new in it. A true threat, one which he was accepting gladly. It wasn’t something he could feel whilst killing, something the euphoria of spelling out others demise could remedy, something he couldn’t fabricate. L’s black eyes, open, as if looking through him, as if he could see the black shadow of the wings on his back, and could read Light’s sins on his mind.

It was one of the only emotions he was sure wasn’t being tampered with by the Death Note. He found stability in it.

And now he was spending time with the man daily. It meant less time spent in his room, sharing the same air as the Note. It meant less dead silence that was filled with Ryuk’s empty contemplation, snickering comments or sickening laugh. It meant less time to process and actually think about what was happening, whether they were hallucinations or not, or the Death Note’s effect on his psyche. He was trying to pry information out of Ryuk whenever he could; was this common? Has this happened to other owners of the Death Note as well? But the thing was just as useless as ever. It hadn’t seen it before, it didn’t know, and yes, it was greatly enjoying the show.

Light could deal with the random appearances. He could steel himself, force himself to pay as little attention to it as possible, resist whatever pull the Death Note was having on him. The constant, wriggling, moving feeling in his back was a distraction he would not give into.

The parasite would not best him. At least the feathers had seemingly stopped. The random bouts of nausea and occasional sight of blood he explained away as a stomach illness to his family. Nothing more.

It would not faze him, or make him reconsider his actions. Light didn’t understand what the Death Note’s goal was anyway; it wasn’t sentient, but it at least felt like it was doing it with a purpose. To drive him to insanity, have him reliant and dependant on killing? Torture him psychologically with feathers and demonic wings that appeared without his will? To use Light as its own?

Too many things he didn’t understand. In a way, he took solace in L- that was something he could understand, decipher, pull apart, evidence that Light was still functioning.

L would be unravelled for him. A page that he could read and decode, for his own amusement, before tearing it to shreds. He was enjoying it. Enjoying feeling scrutinized, seen, and being able to do it all back.

L and their mental schemes became one of his last grips on feeling sane, because that was one of the only things Light could recognise about himself anymore.

*

Light feels like hes being inhabited. There is something living inside him, something that he cannot see, something that only consists of waves of emotions, curdling nausea, the abyss, and want.

He is the host to the Death Note, he realises. It has sunk into him, the parasite sucking his blood and his thoughts, and he is carrying it around with him, every second of the day. There is no way to escape this thing, this creation, residing within. He couldn’t purge it out, couldn’t rip it from his mind, couldn’t stop the grip on his emotions. He needed space, in his head, in his body, and the Death Note was taking all of it. Infecting him, pushing Light aside, and growing inside his skin, taking up all the space and settling in it. Expanding past Light himself; merging into his back, ripping free when he couldn’t take anymore, wings torn out of him. The Death Note was something else, but at the same time, the Death Note had become him.

He knew he couldn’t allow it to go further. It had already taken its form; giving him wings that tore from his back, that deformed him. Light was living to the rhythm of the drum beat in his head, urging him onwards, forcing him to carry on. He wanted more, of course. He wanted it all. He just didn’t know what he would be once he got it.

*

Hes a part of the Kira Task Force now. He had passed L’s test, slipped into the person everyone cherished and loved, and so, Light continued his play, albeit this time on a much grander stage. The risks were also higher, and that just fuelled the adrenaline. A misstep, a wrong word, a reaction too out of character, and that was it. L would have him in his clutches, try to rip every piece of information out of him, and Light wouldn’t say a word. He would’ve definitely enjoyed the elation of holding knowledge over L- the thought was sweet and euphoric on his tongue, reminding him of writing in the Death Note, but it was closer to him. Not some far away, distant pull, like the Note was, but an internal grasp, something he could recognise.

His days were mostly spent with him stood behind L, as the other was sat haphazardly in his chair, his pale, slender fingers moving from sugary substance to the keyboard to Light, when he was gesturing whilst speaking. They were falling into routine. Food, research, hypothesize. He would swivel around in his chair, looking at the other with those leaden, ringed eyes, black hair spilling out around his face, and sometimes just look at Light. His expression was inscrutable, as it often was, though Light knew L could very easily put on false appearances, make himself seem vulnerable and understanding and emotional. This was usually to the others however. With Light, he remained detached, his otherworldly presence and Light’s overbearing one the only ones in the room. Light preferred it this way. It became routine.

His mind, in that room, was quieter, the clashing more like a partnering, where the thoughts joined but didn’t become amalgamations of each other. He enjoyed being able to organise his thoughts whilst speculating about the Second Kira with L; he needed stability to beat the game, to make sure he wasn’t doing something wrong. He needed utmost concentration, and the low hum of the computer and the scratches of L’s fork on the plate had become the backdrop. Randomly, Matsuda or someone else would cut in, break the chain of his thoughts, and Light needed to pick up the pieces and thread them back together.

With L, that didn’t happen. The other could blend into his ideas, absorb his thoughts into Light’s own, and they could work in tandem, two minds combined into one. L could assimilate himself into Light, know how he worked, and it was terrifying, but accepted; because Light knew he was the same thing to L also. He could strike, and he was certain L would strike back. Whatever action he made or word he said, L would react in a way that Light could understand, as if it were something he would do himself. L was reading him. Light was reading him back.

The wings were a nuisance, but he hadn’t seen them for a short period of time. Of course, he felt them; like an overbearing shadow, another limb that he couldn’t control, but it wasn’t an all-encompassing feeling. In that room, in that environment, the wings were shuttered into the smallest corner of Light they could find, almost to the point of nonexistence. Until he stepped back into his room, filled his lungs with Death Note-infected air, and it was squirming again, desperate to get free, and nausea would rise in his stomach. That was something else to Light, something he didn’t think or worry about during the day, when he was in the same room as L, because Kira had been cornered away to that room, locked in with Death Note.

The Second Kira was becoming an issue. A problem that was spiralling into a few hundred more. For a moment, their existence has utterly confused him, but second came the knowledge of understanding. Another Death Note, meant another person like him, with possibly the same side effects. Someone who he could talk to and see if they were experiencing things like Light was; surely, in the world of Death Notes, what was happening was normal for all users. He needed understanding, and someone else like him, at least just for a few moments. Because then he would kill them for being so foolish, take their Death Note, and use it to his advantage. He didn’t like people using the Kira name. It was his, only his, and he would not allow for copycats to debase it.

And when he thought that the Second Kira couldn’t get anymore stupid, when he thougth frustration had reached its peak, they had carelessly thrown in mention of ‘Shinigami’ during one of the tapes. Ryuk burst into laughter, as blood rushed into Light’s head, because they were so unbelievably foolish and it was going to ruin everything. They didn’t know what they were doing; falling right into the Task Force’s trap, yes, but trampling over his plans, his ideas. They can’t give more information out about the Death Note. Words like ‘Shinigami’ are enough for L to pick up on, to use to beat him-

Sure enough, that was when L had collapsed from his chair, throwing himself onto the ground in shock of the word reverberating around the room. His hair was laid out onto the floor, his long, spindly body fallen from the chair, the rest of them watching from a state of mulled over shock. He knew L would take that word and latch onto it, because it meant so much, and fuck, Light was furious.

Writhing in his mind, his thoughts, his fingers, his back. It tensed within him, because it sensed anger and want, and that was where it lived best. There was a coiling in his lower back, and Light gritted his teeth.

L got over his initial shock, but still watched the tape with open, wide, assessing eyes, because he knew that the information he had gathered was important. And, because Light would do the same, he was analysing it, trying to fit it into the bigger picture.

“There is no such thing as Shinigami” left him so easily that Ryuk let out a laugh next to him, blatantly rejecting his point. He was unsure if that was the right approach, however, as L looked at him (through him, almost as if he could see Ryuk, see his lies), as if confused that Light wasn’t reaching the same verdict.

They all listened to that tape a few more times, L looking lost inside his own thoughts. Together, they reach new conclusions about the Second Kira, decide about their next move, and talk. L eats cake, researches a few things about Japanese Shinigami lore, and they merge into one through their conversation. Routine.

*

“Light, when the Second Kira mentioned it, immediately you expressed the idea that Shinigami aren’t real.”

L was doing the thing where Light wasn’t sure if he was talking to him or not. Sometimes he would say Light’s name and reference him, and the when Light replied, he would look taken aback, not expecting a reply. Or perhaps he had so little spacial awareness that he didn’t realise he was there. It wouldn’t surprise him.

“Why?” L added, solidifying the fact that he was, in fact, speaking to Light.

The evening was wearing on, the moon high in the sky, and Light was getting tired. This was something new he had to evade.

“Because, Ryuzaki, you surely cannot believe that gods of death are real.”

L hummed, but raised his eyebrows at Light, disappearing into his mess of black hair.

“Kira can kill without touching the person. All he needs is a face and a name, and somehow, these people die. It is a godlike, supernatural power. The realm of possibility that something like Shinigami can exist is becoming more probable.”

“Are you saying that Kira is a Shinigami?”

“Again, possibly. Though, that would infer the existence of many other Shinigami, which is worrying.” “If they’re god, why would they require a face and name to kill? Surely such things are redundant if you are a supernatural being.”  

“Very true, Light. I had that thought myself. It is more likely that Kira is a human, given their motive, but we cannot exclude all the possibilities.”

The silence stretched on for a few seconds. The knotting feeling in Light’s lower back had dissipated, and now he was left with the emptiness, the awareness of his own mind. The clarity.

“Shinigami could be a way to refer to their killing power. Or to themselves, since they have godlike abilities.”

“They’re using the term like an alias. To hide whatever they’re truly using.”

“Yes.” L nodded, the moonlight stretched across his face, blending into his pale skin.

“Do you believe in the supernatural, Ryuzaki?”

He wasn’t sure why it had come out of him. Perhaps it was because, before this, Light would’ve scoffed and belittled such a question. He did not give into the whims of disillusionment; all he saw was reality, 2D and plain. That was what he used to believe, at least.

L went silent for a few seconds, his hands stilling on the keyboard, before replying;

“I guess I have reconsidered my stance since the Kira case. It surely seems like this power is something metaphysical. Light, do you have a scientific explanation for how Kira is committing these murders? Don’t answer, it was rhetorical. So, my belief in the natural order of things has somewhat shifted. There is room to believe in the supernatural, so to speak.”
L’s voice was modulated, flitting through their shared space, as if caught up by the moon peering in through the window. L said this, however, to his computer screen. The low light of the device glared back at him, painting his skin in a light blue tone.

“If these Shinigami are real, then we could assume that other mythological creatures do as well.”

“We could assume, yes, but how would we prove it? These things stay myths because there are no evidence for them.”

“Which is why we need to catch Kira in the act.”

“We need to now exactly how he does it. Every movement and requirement that is needed for them to kill. How this power gets passed on, especially. Kira could be immortal if all he needs to do is pass on his power onto the next person who will do the job for him.”

Light folded his arms, leaning back in his seat.

“Thats quite discouraging of you, Ryuzaki. I thought you were going to execute Kira, no matter what?”

At that, L spun around in his chair, his legs tucked up to his chest, the light shifting on his face. The man stared at Light, his expression strangely amused.

“I will, Light, I assure you. Whatever supernatural power you possess, I doubt it will save you from death.”

The words hit him suddenly, as if causing physical pain, but only a slight twitch of frustration and shock could be evident on Light’s face. He stayed disciplined. Drawn.

“I am honored, Ryuzaki, that you think I possess superhuman abilities.”

“Well, your intelligence is above average. I have never denied that.”  

“Above average? I’m sure you think you’re the smartest man alive, L.”  

The use of ‘L’ here was for effect. L, with his heavenly ego to rival Kira’s, his untouchable pride and 100% track record. Ryuzaki was no one. L was the one to wound.

“Indeed. Your ego is staggering, Light Yagami.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to-”

“Exactly like Kiras.” L interjected, his face looking amused by the current diversion in topic.

“If I had supernatural abilities, I’d use them to make you vanish off the face of the Earth.”  

“Why, Light, you don’t need special powers for that. Murder does exist.”

What was it about L that was so captivating? The man hoarded Light’s attention so that none of it was Light’s alone, even if he wasn’t trying for it. He simply existed to torment Light, be his antithesis, his polar opposite. So far apart and yet so close at the same time.

L was watching Light from his seat, considering him, and Light knew he was thinking. Committing to memory, and turning over thoughts in his head, his mind spinning.

L looked like he had found something, and wasn’t about to let it go.

*
The night Misa Amane finds him, shows up at his house, invades his room and gives him another obstacle in the shape of her Shinigami, Light had been running on four hours sleep. He’s already deteriorating, mind stretched too thin, preoccupied with Kira by night and L by day. He is already tired. He does not need this.

And yet, Misa confesses to him in a long spiel of blubbering words, and all it does is aggravate him even more. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard to him, the slow dragging raking across his mind, and its creating echoes in his head. High-pitched, shrieky, and somehow along the way it becomes maniacal, because the Death Note is sharing the room with them, and its distorting and deforming every sense Light has.

“We can be together, Light!”

“I love you, Light!”  

“You’re so perfect, Light!”

“I’ve always admired you, Kira!”

They mix and clash and brawl, because nothing is still in Light’s head anymore, everything is in constant motion. No controlled planning, or calm, just rolling waves and the evolving current that is about to drown him alive.

He stands and paces around the room, eyes unintentionally dragging towards the book he knows is lying in his desk drawer. Constantly moving towards it. Never being still.

He argues with Misa just to hear his own voice in an attempt to smother the others. It brings him back to the present, if just for a second. He can feel it coiling within him, the gun cocked and loaded, ready to unleash.

He kisses Misa as well, wraps her in his arms, but theres nothing soft or gentle about it, only jerky, uncontrolled movements. No kindness or affection, because the only thing Light feels is the steady pulse of anger and curling gluttony in his chest, the parasite wanting to feed.

“Misa,” He says, low and guttural, “How strong is the effect the Death Note is having on you?”
For a second she is taken aback, mouth open in surprise, and she looks at Light in slight confusion.

“I don’t feel guilty about the people, if thats what your asking. You don’t have to be worried about me, Light! I’ll do anything for you.” Her eyes are big and pleading, craving acceptance, and all Light can do is push her back, because she still seems human, and its burning him. She is a Death Note user too; she had her Death Note with her, in her hands, and she wasn’t unstable, about to be torn apart, or throw up blood. She was still human in a way Light couldn’t understand, so he lets go of her as if his palms are stinging.

“Light Yagami, are you lost to it?” The voice is foreign, deep, and he realises its Rem, from the corner of the room. He glances up from under his hair, replays the words in his head, makes sense of them.

He doesn’t answer her. He can’t answer her. He deflects instead, because all Light is ever able to do, without fail, is lie.

“Is there a way to control this? To get rid of it?” Is that his voice? Is that someone else saying the words for him? Is it the parasite inside, using his mouth as its puppet, living in control of his limbs?

“It is to my understanding that the longer one owns a Death Note, and the more people they kill, the stronger the feeling gets. You could forfeit ownership, of course.” Just words. Only words. Only words, the Death Note, and Light. The only things to exist.

He nods, because his jaw is locked, and starting to taste metallic. Rem’s voice is so far away, he can barely hear it. He nods again when she tells him that if he ever hurts Misa, or plans to kill her, she will write his name in her Death Note. He remembers that thats how hes going to die anyway; written in a Death Note. Claimed by it entirely, in the end. From dust to dust.

Somehow, eventually, Misa and Rem are corralled out of his house. He does not mourn the loss of Misa’s company and her earsplitting voice.

His limbs are shaking, and Ryuk is simply a shadow on the wall, as he walks back up the stairs. He hesitates walking back into his room, hand paused on the doorhandle, not wanting to walk back into that festering air, that heavy weight that collapses upon his shoulders as soon as the barrier is open.

He walks in anyway, his footsteps signifying his demise, and all he wants to do is hide away. He needs the Death Note like he needs air; its also smothering him, depriving him of every breath, and its suffocating. He needs to kill, but he also needs to leave, because if he stays here hes going to lose himself, going to forget everything-

Forgetting everything. Thats what Rem said, wasn’t it? To forget it all.

He shakes his head, as if the action would rearrange his thoughts anew. The flood only rises.

In that very moment, as soon as he closes the door behind him and both of his feet are inside the same room as the Death Note, as soon as hes trapped, his wings snap and unfold behind him in a bloody cloak.

A gasp of pain escapes him involuntarily. He scrabbles and begs for air, because the wings have torn out from him, real and existent; not the illucid, faint hallucinations of before, when he saw the immaterial forms in the mirror. No, this time they weigh him down, and they are heavy, dragging him back down to Earth, a dripping black weight keeping him chained here, amongst humanity. His blood is trailing onto the floorboards, because feather and bone and muscle has just severed the flesh of his back, and he is experiencing the reality of the Death Note. Hardly able to breathe, he collapses onto the floor. Instinctually, the wings are drawn closer to him, like a protective cover against the enemy, but the enemy here is Light himself.

He cannot stop himself from looking to the side at them; he had never seen things more corrupt, vile, and he had to physically restrain himself from throwing up at the sight. Towering behind him, now strong and lithe, were the wings; the primaries dipping to touch the floor, black spilling onto the boards, the feathers raking against the door. Transcendent glitches that poured out from his back, black masses, undefined, but ones that felt; every movement of his muscles, every panicked convulsion, and they shifted, sending impulses down the nerves to his spine.

In a state of shock, blood beginning to pool around his thighs, Light reached up to touch the crest of a primary feather.

It was soft, like the one he had found so long ago, jammed into his neck. The black tufts were silky. Touching it was an out of body experience; he refused to believe this was his body, this demonic appearance, this supernatural horror that he had become-

And yet. And yet. The ocean had stilled. It was quiet.

It was as if his previously boiling emotions, his anger and spite, his want and greed, had all been poured out of him; every drop of his blood had expelled it, and his feelings had spilt out onto the floor along with his wings. His mind was clear, and he could hear himself, could hear his heaving through open ears, and the chanting had died, the notes stuck in the singer’s throat. The waves had halted. His thoughts were arranged, cohesive, in a way they hadn’t been for months. He wasn’t being lived in. The wings had been forced out.

“Well, welcome to the club, Light.”

Ryuk was grinning. Light looked down at his hands, just to make sure he didn’t have matching talons, to make sure he was still retaining some sort of humanity, to find that he still had his human form, he was still alive, he was still existing-

And promptly passed out.

*

He wakes up in his bed, body thrown haphazardly on the covers.

He stirs, slowly, his limbs creaking in protest, but the pain is gone.

His eyes are blurry. Ryuk is a messy shadow in the corner of his sight, stood in the centre of the room, its ghostly presence as haunting as the first time he saw it.

He moves his head to the side -his neck is stiff- and sees that his puddle of blood is still there, seeping into the floorboards.

He is still here. It wasn’t a bad dream. It wasn’t a hallucination.

His wings are gone. He knows this because he can feel his back touch the soft sheets of his bed without anything obstructing in the way.

He also knows this because he can feel the presence of the Death Note in his subconscious again. It is sharpening its claws, getting ready to dig them into his skin.

Those few seconds of bliss, where everything went quiet. Where he could drain himself out into the world, dispel everything he hated, and could finally think. Those few moments where it was only him. Not the Death Note. Only him.

*

Light Yagami is consistently controlled. He has a firm grasp on his life, even when everything is unravelling behind the exterior. He could watch the world collapse and still hold everything inside; Light Yagami has played the game, and won time and time again.

So he goes through the motions. He goes to school sporadically, and then mourns the loss of L’s presence in random intervals, because at least the other could serve as some source of stimulation. At school, he is, once again, a different person. There is Light Yagami, straight A, sociable student, there is Light-kun, a person that only lives on L’s tongue, in that room, and then there is Kira.

Light falls into routine.

Firstly, he spends some days going to school and continuing his university life. He lives as Light Yagami, Japan’s honor student, and goes on random dates with random girls.

Secondly, he goes to the Kira Task Force Quarters, in that larger, homelier hotel room. There, he dons the skin of Light-kun, a name discovered under moonlight. Light-kun evades and dodges but enjoys it all the same. Light-kun is an offering to L.

Lastly, there is Kira. Kira appears as soon as the door shuts and the cage is closed.

Light learns that Kira is pure emotion with no self control. So once he enters that room with the Death Note, he becomes Kira without thought. His whole spine will twist and writhe, and the pain will urge him onwards, his hand shaking, and eventually, he will give in. Light, almost subconsciously, reveals blackened, velvet wings, because it is the only effective remedy, the only way to make it stop.

Light considers this. He thinks and debates with himself about the Note. Mentally, he picks it apart, and builds himself back together again.

In order to achieve mental stability, it forces Light to pour his wings out into the world. They make him vulnerable, tainted. They expose his sin. Most importantly, they expose Light to himself.

The Death Note changes you, he has learnt. It has changed Light. It has broken down his last defence; lying to himself. The wings force him to see his actions, plain as day, no sugar coating or excuses. No pretences about ‘doing it for a better world’. It shows Light as he is on the inside; dirty, charred, black. The Death Note is manifesting his sin so that it hurts, and so that he is bound to it. No hiding from the truth of his actions. This is what he has become, and he must not run from it.

Every night the wings envelop his back. He stares at them. Each feather is a person that has fallen to his pen on the page of the Death Note. They are inscribed into the spines of the plumes, and if he looked close enough, he could read them.

A reminder of what Light has become. They spill out of him like dark figures either side, and Light gets used to the presence and the still mind they afford him.

He embraces his sins as he writes. He feels every new feather grow, a new name added to the graveyard.

He carries them round until the very end.

Chapter Text

"I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, no fear,
yet struggling blindly with itself."

- Joseph Conrad

*

May is crossing over the horizon, and the summer is just in reach. Already, Light can feel the heat start to accumulate under his clothes, his hair sticking to the nape of his neck as the country welcomes in the heatwave.

The nice weather is overcast by the climate of nervousness surrounding Kira. For the past seven months, the background killings of criminals had become almost second nature; how quickly murder became normalised amongst the public. Kira’s public image remained intact, the perfect, polished over silhouette of what Light showed himself to be. The tedious back-and-forth with the Second Kira, Kira and the police over Sakura TV was grating on some peoples nerves, however. Tensions rose higher, as if the summer heat was spilling over into people’s emotions. The stakes were raised.

Light began to appreciate cool nights where he could stand on his balcony and feel the slow breeze brush against his body. Sometimes, when the pounding got too much, he would leave, walk out into the open air, and take deep lungfuls like a drowning man. His skin would be pricked by humid undercurrent of Japan’s climate; in the distance, he could hear night-time insects. Cicada, each species with their different derivative of the same sound. Summer really begun once you could hear the cicada cry, was something he heard his father say.

Time was a slow drawl that Light hardly paid any attention to. He stood outside, his arms crossed on the cool railing, watching the city from his secluded suburban neighbourhood. If he concentrated, he could focus on the buzzing of the insects, rather than the movement in his head. A concert, right here, outside his bedroom door. The world was singing out to him.. So he turned on his heel, stretched out his back, and returned back inside, shutting the glass door behind him.

He could still hear slight buzzing, but he had gotten used to it enough to recognise that that was his own mind. Rather, the swarm that lived inside him.

But he treated them as his companions now. No, his witnesses. Witnesses to Kira’s rise, and Light’s fall, though both were the same. He had learnt to embrace it. Let the Death Note watch on; he was not ashamed of his sin. He would unfurl his wings a thousand times to let that fact be known. Kira did not regret.

The world went quiet. The summer chirps of the cicada went silent.

Light had a good nights sleep.

*

“Why does Light-kun flinch whenever something touches his back? Is he hurt?”

The low, sombre tone of L’s voice flooded the room. Light scowled at the other, who was perched on his chair, staring back at the low light coming from the computer.

“No. And I don’t flinch, Ryuzaki. You’re projecting your back pain due to your awful posture onto me.”

L shrugged, taking a moment to dip his finger into the cream of his raspberry coated vanilla cake, licking it off his finger as Light sat behind him, face schooled in an irritated glower.

“Should I refer you to a chiropractor, Light? I’m sure something can be done about your back pain.”

“Shove off, Ryuzaki.”

Of course L had picked up on that.

*

The next few days passed in a blur. It was June, it was hot, and Light was irritated by the game the Second Kira and the Task Force were playing. If only other people weren’t involved; he was sure that Kira’s and L’s game would’ve been the best of them all.

The man himself was laying on the sofa of the living space, body sprawled out amongst pillows. He still wore his trademark white shirt and low hanging jeans, and Light expected that the man would be buried in the exact same attire. Actually, he would make sure of it. It wouldn’t be like L to be laid to rest in an uncomfortable suit, something he wouldn’t wear for the world in his actual life. Light had gotten accustomed to the mannerisms, the bickering, the eccentricity of the man. So, he watched as the other laid himself out on the sofa, pale feeting hanging off the edge.

“Ryuzaki, I would prefer if you didn’t decide to sleep here.”

L blinked, shuffling himself so that his head hit the throw pillows, and simply laid there, like a ragdoll.

“I’m not sleeping, Light.” The short response caused Light to flare up in irritation. He crossed his arms, standing a pace away from the sofa, the morning light flooding into the hotel room.

“What are you doing, then?”

“Preparing myself for the grave? This is the usual position dead men are buried in, I presume.” L’s voice was matter-of-fact, his dry wit and odd sense of humour rising to the surface.

“Well, if you’re pretending to be dead, you’re doing a poor job of it. Dead men don’t speak.”

“But Light,” L spoke in his singsong tone, “who would you spend your days with if I were dead?” The older man sounded as if he were singing nursery rhymes, but the words were much different. L wasn’t just hinting that Kira/Light was going to kill him; he was saying it outright. Light became suspicious; his mind was staring to tick, trying to fit the pieces together. L’s laid out form on the sofa and his overall tone was becoming distracting, however.

“I would spend less days being in your general vicinity, Ryuzaki, which would be a great improvement.” His own voice just couldn’t seem to match L’s unexpected joviality.

L gave a fake pout from his splayed position on the sofa.

“A great improvement for Kira, I’m sure.”

“For my own sanity, as well.”

“Ditto, Light, they’re the same.”

“Is this what has brought this on? You think I’m going to kill you?” He gave a fake laugh, just to uphold the illusion. The image of the single letter L torn into the pages of the Death Note flickered in his mind. There, L was already dead, and he just didn’t know it yet. They could talk in ‘if’s and ‘but’s but in the end, L was going to be sprawled out onto a slab, similar to how he was lying now, and Light would watch on, Note in hand, wings spread out behind his back.

“Well, I seriously doubt that Kira would be able to find my real name, so maybe not you exactly, no. But this Second Kira, with their ‘eyes’. That could be a real threat to me, Light.” He continued his cheerful lilt, as if talking about the nice weather they were having recently. Light shifted on the balls of his feet. He didn’t like where this was going.

“Are you… you can’t seriously be thinking of giving up, L.” L, fuck. Light recognised his mistake immediately. L was for when Kira was talking; the conversation had suddenly become more than an eccentric L bemoaning his near death. He had forgotten to use Ryuzaki, and it had made him seem too direct.

L sighed, his languid body stretched out on the sofa. His chest gave slow rises and falls, and Light resigned himself to the fact that there was a beating heart still in there. The man wasn’t dead yet, even though he was seemingly expecting to be.

“Of course I’m not ‘giving up’. I stop when Kira is dead. The stakes have just been raised, thats all. Its rare that I have to put my life on the line.” This time, he sounded somewhat genuine. Light could see that the other was watching the curtains shift in the slow breeze coming through the open window in an attempt to allow cool air into the room. The light on the wall danced as the curtains moved.

“You’re perfectly fine with risking everybody else’s.”

“Seems like me and Kira have something in common, then. Both of us are undeniably selfish.”

At this, Light didn’t answer, which was unlike him. He stood there, arms by his side, hearing the distant waves broil at the back of his head. He stared at the lithe figure before him, mulled over the words of their conversation. Selfish, yes. Both of them. Which was probably why the next thing L said was;

“You are my very first friend, Light Yagami.”

That honeyed, gentle tone. Light’s eyes widened, and for a second, he could hardly process what L was saying. Once they had settled, sunk in, Light gave out a breath he was holding. The room had gotten cooler, if just for a few seconds.

“Likewise, L.”

*

Misa returns to his room that same day. She’s tailed by Rem, who watches over every action like a hawk, and stares Light up and down everytime he moves. Shes clearly thinking of the last time she had seen him; frantic, pained, lost. The churning sea that had overwhelmed him.

Now, even in close proximity to the Death Note, he would remain collected. It still spoke and writhed and whispered to him, the parasite beneath his skin awakening when he started writing, but it wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t all-encompassing, ripping Light to shreds, because Light had welcomed it all in with open arms. It couldn’t hurt him if he had accepted its terms; to have the power the Kira, but to have to shoulder all the guilt.

Tonight, he was restless, but able to hide it. L’s conversation was still ringing on reverb in his head, merging into the swirl of the waves. He lounged and crossed his legs in a collected, calm fashion, watching Misa fix her hair in his floor-length mirror.

“Misa, seeing me be happy would make you happy, correct?”

L had once said that Light could wrap almost anyone around his finger. Light had scowled at him as the other took big chunks out of some chocolate cheesecake delicacy he had been eating that morning. His fingers had been coated with the chocolate syrup. It had angered Light immensely.

“Yes, Light, of course.” Misa dropped her hair, turning towards Light, her black skirts ruffling as she moved. Rem tensed, and Light could hardly stop himself from grinning. Instead, he transformed it into his easy smile, directing his attention to Misa, locking eyes with the woman that had abruptly crashed into his life.

“Well, I need Rem to kill L. That would make me very happy. I may even love you for it.” He was pushing forward, now. Just the words ‘kill’ and ‘L’ next to each other on his tongue was a sweet mixture of both excitement and victory. Victory, if this all went well.

For a moment, Misa stilled, before launching into a flurry of movement that had Light’s head spinning. She was ecstatic, wrapping her arms around Light’s neck to hug him, eyes bright. Basically defenseless. A few words, and this woman was practically at his feet. His eyes shifted to Rem, who was standing in the corner of the room, watching the developments with her eternal passive glare and disapproving expression. Light smiled towards the Shinigami.

“Oh, please, Rem! This would make me so happy!” Misa’s voice was echoing off the walls, echoing in his head, and he reminded himself to at least try and reciprocate her actions. He pulled her closer to him, a mimicry of true intimacy, his best reproduction of care that he could muster. This was the problem with people; they could bend and fold, become malleable to others. Soften once they get what they want, as soon as someone offers affection or pretty words. People were too inclined to waver, flex under somebody else. Even L fit into this category. Light wasn’t like that. He didn’t bend easily, couldn’t become putty in someones hands; Light could only snap. In a single, quick, fractured movement.

Rem looked defeated. Light could see it with his own eyes; she had been beat, because she would too easily adapt to somebody else. Would be too pliant and willing if she could ensure Misa’s happiness. All it took was her pretty smile, beaming face, bright eyes, and the thing would walk into open flames for Misa Amane.

“So, what do you say, Rem? Kill L to make Misa happy?” Lights voice was smooth, glacial, and wicked.

Rem stood in rapt attention, her yellowed eyes raking the scene at hand. She moved slowly, pointing a single bony finger directly at Light’s chest, above his breastbone, above his beating heart.

“I despise you, Light Yagami. Even the Death Note couldn’t break you, and that tells me you are truly evil.” The Shinigami paused, hand stilled in midair, her form towering over the other two humans. Light matched her eyes with his own. There is no such thing as regret.

“However, I will do this. I will kill L, for Misa.”

It was that simple. That easy, to sign away L’s life. To have created his death, orchestrated the man’s last moments on Earth, and they were all Light’s to play with. His back itched, the familiar feeling of power rising to the surface, and the chanting in Light’s ears had risen up an octave, hymn-like choruses to God. Worshipping him, praising him, loving him. All those voices, entirely his. To control ones death is to own them. L’s existence lay in his hands.

The slow summer breeze was filling the room, brushing against his skin, the low hum of cicada joining in with the melody. It was then he realised that the wind was brushing against something else too: it was weaving between tendons, ruffling feathers and wisps of black, flitting between the material of his wings. Before, he had felt the heavy, dead weight of the things; now, it was light and airy, and he could hardly tell they were there. His sins could not drag him down, because the guilt was nonexistent.

Misa had gasped, dropped her clutch from his side immediately, and Light pushed a hand over her mouth to stop the woman from screaming herself hoarse. She could deal with ghostly Shinigami and monsters that followed her round, but the sudden appearance of wings was enough to startle her into screaming?

“Ignore them, Misa.” Despite his acceptance of the wings, Light hadn’t found a particular way to control them yet. He couldn’t winch them in at will, nor manifest them. They simply responded in proximity to the Death Note, and emotion. Like a bell signalling out he was Kira.

Misa took several steps backwards, eyes widening comically as she took in the two forms shadowing Light’s back. Two charred creatures weighing on him either side. Two devils, instead of an angel and a devil. Light had disturbed the natural order of things.

“Oh my god Light! You have... you have wings?” She had the sense of mind to lower the volume of her voice as her shriek sounded out into the room.

“Yes. The Death Note gave me wings.” It was the first time he had uttered the words aloud. It was strange to hear it said, the confession coming out of his mouth; it was like admitting vulnerability. It was telling others what he had been crafted into, showing off his new found form, and it was unsettling.

“So you aren’t invincible to it, after all.” Rem sounded pleased, and it grated on Light’s nerves. He felt his wings contract and coil around his shoulderblades in a protective gesture.

However, the Shinigami was insinuating something that Light had been wondering about;

“Does that mean Misa is immune to the effects of the Death Note?” Could Light deal with the knowledge that the Death Note had been able to take advantage of him and not Misa?

“No. The sin attached to the Death Note manifests differently in each human. The severity of it depends on the guilt the person feels, and the amount of people they have killed.”

“I don’t feel guilt at all. I’m going to continue to kill. Surely the wings should go back into nonexistence?”

“Little is known about the inner workings of the Death Note, Light Yagami.” She paused, taking a second to think, “Besides, do you think that it would simply let you hide your actions? Back into nonexistence, as you said?”

With steadily growing heaviness of the wings, Light had figured no. They had become a part of him; little could be done to spare him from his actions. Just like the Death Note, there was no turning back, no reget, no guilt. Light was going to march onwards, fly higher, until the eventual burn.

“So, the Death Note is in tune with my emotions. It made me… unstable. When I’m close to it, and feel guilt, it manifests my actions into my wings. Even if I don’t feel guilt, the wings stay to remind me of what I’ve done.” Light brushed his hand through his brown hair, pushing the strands away from his eyes. He glares at his own Shinigami, a fading grin in the background of the commotion. “Ryuk, you said the Death Note wasn’t sentient.”

It stuttered, gesturing wildly with its taloned hands in surrender- “I don’t know anything about it, Light! No one really does!”

Stalemate, then. Light couldn’t get the Death Note to reveal its secrets, to take back what it had done to him; but at the same time, he would refuse to let it control him any longer. Stalemate, because neither power could best the other. It had occurred to Light that he had started to see the Note as a second opponent, and best asset, all at once.

Misa had surged forward by this point, golden hair bouncing on her shoulders, prior shock and hesitance wiped off her face. Her eyes were round, glossy, and in awe.

“And to think I couldn’t love you any more, Light. Please, show more of them to me!” Her voice was begging, glazed, and she reached out a hand towards Light, delicate fingertips brushing his collarbone.

Currently, the wings were crowded against his back, packed closely together as to not spread out and hit the walls. They were wide, strong, and he didn’t want them destroying his room as well as touching someone else.

Immediately, he pulled back, Misa’s touch evaporating on his skin as he took several steps away from her. The wings returned to their position, heightened against Light’s shoulder, as if protecting him from a threat. They were cramped, bundled and forced together.

“But they’re so pretty, Light!”

Pretty. She thinks they’re pretty?

Misa Amane, these wings are crawling with such sin that I can feel it when I sleep. All these feathers are names with which I have spelt out my own demise, and they are alive on my flesh. They are a damnation, an ungodliness, that I have accepted about myself. Do not call them ‘pretty’.

The woman pouts, eyes pleading, darting from Light’s face to the black masses on his back. The flicker back and forth, and Light takes a long inhale of breath. He wills the wings to fold themselves back into wherever they go when they’re not fucking up his life, but they continue to exist, like two overarching witnesses to the spiralling cesspool that Light is slowly becoming. Misa Amane seems transfixed.

“Do not come closer to me, Misa. And no, you can’t touch them.” He sighs, unsettled, the feathers rustling and rearranging audibly as he twitches. The cicada ring out through the open balcony door.

“But… but Light!” Is her only response, although she halts in her advancement, taking a few steps backwards, closer to Rem. Her shoes sound heavy footfalls on the floor, and Light hopes that his family couldn’t hear any part of this altercation.

“Don’t mention them, Misa. They appear sometimes. Its none of your concern.”

Where he expects a long tirade of trust and intimacy and how ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ should be honest about everything, she is only silent. She gives a shaky, determined nod, and bites her lip worriedly with her teeth. For some reason, Light hears the whisper of a sinister thought echo through his mind. He wonders how the Death Note has decided to curse Misa Amane.

He is pulled back into the present. Light declares his plan, directs Rem in how she should kill L in a way that would appease him. Not too soon, or it would be too suspicious. He can’t have the other investigators narrow him down as being truly Kira. Let L’s suspicions die with him.

It occurs to him that earlier that evening, he had told L that he was his very first friend.

Strangely, his wings get heavier and heavier as the thought runs on. Then, he listens to the cicada chirp, and all is right in the world. L is going to die.

*

Nothing goes to plan. L is a bastard, L is the worst thing to exist, L is the very being that is stopping all of Light’s dreams. So the plan is foiled, L gets his high of having bested his opponent, and Misa Amane is imprisoned, tied to a rack and blindfolded. Light Yagami has never been so outraged.

He seethes, lips curling, livid. Seeing L, with his confident, smug face, totally at ease whilst he ripped away all of Light’s expectations. It was so close. Victory was there, hanging in front of his eyes, and L had torn it away with a few simple, easy actions. L made it look like he was invincible, that he would always remain out of reach, just out of Light’s grasp. Always one step ahead.

And now he has to factor in Misa too, which means dealing with the murderous Shinigami that is Rem. The only actual threat to his life, if not counting L, who Light is sure doesn’t have a shred of real evidence against him to permit execution. Misa, however, has now left a papertrail to her own conviction; she has left damning evidence, and Light doesn’t trust her enough not to reveal something to L under duress. L, like him, could easily play her and toy with her mind; he could only hope that Misa Amane keeps her mouth shut.

The Death Note was beckoning him in, even then, even when everything hung in the balance. It only saw black and white; not consequence and effect. Live, or die. To Light, there were much worse things than death. Truthfully, he was doing L a favour.

So, he rages, Ryuk occasionally chiming in with worthless comments and general annoyance, and it only makes Light want to kill more. If only he could choke the life out of L, out of everything, and live in the decay. He wanted to see the effect of his actions on the world; wanted to see it all drift apart, torn to pieces, chasms left in his wake. Light knew was filthy, rotting away, tied to the Death Note by force. Tied to it by his own will.

He doesn’t sleep that night, only because being in the same room as the Note and the general boiling, hot anger through his skin makes him unable to close his eyes. He feels knotting and twisting inside of him. He feels the rising nausea again, and every so often he finds specks of blood littered on his clothes. When he wipes blood off his lips, he decides that he needs to breathe, or else his lungs would collapse inwards.

He steps out onto his balcony in the early hours of the day. It isn’t warm, but Light feels feverish all over, burning up. It is early summer, the cicada are welcoming him in, and cool lungfuls of air entering his body cause him to shake.

Light stands on the balcony, looking out into Kira’s soon-to-be-claimed world. His mind twists, his emotions boil, and he thinks. Light pieces things together, analyses, plots. Maps out life and death, consequence and effect.

By the time he returns to his room, hours later, the sun is rising on the horizon, and Light knows what he has to do. Victory is so close, and yet so far.

*

He walks into that hotel room, legs heavy. His eyes are ringed with a lack of sleep, but he figures it would help his cause.

Light looks at his father, with his streaked silver hair, and quickly turns his eyes away. He takes in L, who is carbon copy of every L hes ever seen, because the man does not change. L stays consistent, stable.

He appreciates the sunlight pouring through the window, the bright weather. Its a nice send off.

He tells L that he suspects he is Kira. L agrees, with a brief moment of hesitance. Light is promptly locked away, blind folded and handcuffed.

They take his watch off. Light Yagami walks into that cell knowing he was parting ways with the Death Note.

He was going to forget.

*

“This useless pride, I guess I’m just going to have to get rid of it!”

Its interesting that in the final moments, Light is hopeful. He was going to sever himself from the thing he needed and craved, and yet, the world was becoming blissfully, so peacefully, quiet.

He feels the tendrils slowly seep from his mind, the Death Note’s grip going lax, retreating. It unwinds itself from its chokehold on Light’s neck, dissolves from his lungs, invisible black smoke returning to the atmosphere. Carefully, it untangles its vice on Light’s life, melts away from his heart, dripping from it. The knots and cords it had created over his emotions are all picked away, cut and broken, the threads left loose. The dark cloud lifts. His eyes, the irises filled with the murky, swirling black of death, are wiped clean, becoming blank. The parasite is killed, the bloody remains purged, left to crawl back to its origin, the Death Note morphing back into its original form.

Light is hopeful, because in that tiny, enclosed cell, everything is so, so quiet. The cicada don’t reach him. The Death Note cannot reach him. Kira cannot reach him. He hides away in nonexistence, just like Rem had said.

Light had forfeited the Death Note for his own survival, to escape L.

A part of him had also wanted to return to silence, one last time.

Chapter Text

“Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

*

Everything is one. The Earth sways, mixes, shifts, and everything is merged. One, living, breathing, world.

Light Yagami counts the bricks that make up his cell. His eyes rake up and down the walls, the amber dulled, and he starts mentally making notes of the bricks.

134… 135…

The top row is slightly shifted so that a brick is normally missing from the sequence. The room is uneven. Light learns that he has to have something to focus on, even if that is the minimally off-kilter cell he now finds himself in.

With his hands chained behind his back, there is nothing he can do, really. He stays in his sitting position for hours, wrists growing uncomfortable against the handcuffs, slowly being rubbed red. His body is bent in a permanent crouch that causes his back to crumple and the bones to creak every time he moves. He is uncomfortable, limbs splayed out against the metal of his bed, and even though he couldn't see himself, he is sure he looks like half the man he actually was. What he would give for a hot shower, and the chance to properly arrange his hair.

Despite the physical uncomforts of his sentence, the worst, by far, was the boredom. The monotony of everyday in that single room. Just Light, with only himself for company, his brain working overdrive despite him wishing it would simply rest. With nothing to stimulate his mind, he was utterly restless. Time wasn’t even passing anymore; it stayed an abstract concept, as if something that was happening to the rest of the world but not him. All he had were the four walls of his cell, the pull of his muscles whilst his hands were clasped behind his back, and utter, utter, boredom.

He hadn’t felt like this in a while, he knew. Boredom was something Light had been sunk into time and time again; even when he wasn’t strapped down in an empty room. Life was his constant routine, where nothing gave him pause, nothing interested him enough to live. Nothing to strive for. Light had felt like a ghost wandering the empty halls of the living.

His arrest had welcomed that null back in again. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time.

167… 168….

Light’s entire existence composed of one room. It was holding him in, entrapping him. Sometimes, the outside world became hazy to him. He could recall moments of high fervor, as clear as day, even if he could not specifically understand why those emotions had been prompted. All were punctured with his own spite and bitterness, negative emotions His first time meeting L, for example. He could remember pure anger, confusion, and it struck him through like a hot knife every time he remembered it. He could see L looking at him during that entrance ceremony, could visualise every swath of black hair and dark eyes.

Some memories, however, were more problematic. The moments where he was particularly emotional were few and far between; they stood out from all the rest. The remainder of his memory seemed to be… murky. Distant, almost, as if they didn’t really belong to him. He couldn’t remember specific memories of being with his family for the past few months, almost as if he had drowned out the monotony of them, not even committing them to memory. The rest was shrouded over in a cloud, memories he could attach no emotion to. Like he hadn’t lived them at all.

He couldn’t understand why he had turned himself in like he did. His desperation about his imprisonment was real; he simply couldn’t follow his own thought process. He knew he had asked L to isolate him, had said that he suspected he was Kira. Now, chained and bound, watching the wall, he couldn’t discern his own actions. It was unsettling.

The confusion hadn’t abated, but with his limited resources in his trapped room, it wasn’t as if Light could do anything about it. Instead, he busied himself with tasks to keep himself sane. Counting bricks was one of them, for example.

He had reached 203 when L’s voice crackled over the speaker.

“Hello, Light. How are you today?”

That same drawling, flat tone. It flitted through his life at random intervals, breaking up the chain of Light’s boredom, if only for a few minutes each time. L was human contact. L was a reminder that his life did, in fact, consist outside of the cell, and that he had something to return to once he got out.

If he ever got out. L seemed to be convinced that he was Kira. Also, there was the issue of;

“No other criminals have been killed, Light.”

Light had heard this enough over the length of time he had spent under L’s observation. It was said in that exact tone, the same words, the pause before L decided to divulge information that wasn’t surprising to either party. The use of ‘Light’ at the end, directed to him. An accusation if there ever was one.

“Are you actually doing things other than watching me, Ryuzaki?” He bit the words out through his teeth. L’s contact was good in reminding Light that people other than himself existed; he forgot how riled he became at the other’s pretentiousness.

“Of course, Light. I watch over Miss Amane as well.”

Light could picture him, stooped over his desk, the television light painting his face and illuminating his hair. Or maybe it was day, and the sun was surrounding him, as well as filling the room. He could see that hotel room, that sofa, could imagine the task force crowded into it. The same room he had handed himself in, presented his sanity to L on a silver platter. Images beyond that got hazy.

“Perhaps you should consider trying to find Kira.”

“I think I’ve done an alright job of it so far,” L paused, probably to run a thumb over his lower lip, proceeding to irritate Light further, “There have been no deaths in the past few weeks, after all.”

“You seriously think that will last? That Kira gave up?”

“Maybe not gave up. Gave himself in, yes.”

“Please, Almighty L, tell me how I am murdering as Kira whilst being chained in a locked room. I’m sure your deduction will astound me.”

Over the speaker, he could hear L give a slight laugh. It was airy, barely present, nothing like the deep tones of L’s natural speaking voice. Light was convinced that it was a huff of mockery. L was greatly enjoying seeing Light like this, most probably; vulnerable, stripped of basic human rights. Treated like a criminal, a convict. Treated as if he was actually Kira, though he was sure the punishment would be much more severe if L actually decided to execute him on suspicion. The world’s greatest detective, secretive L, and he was here, keeping Light imprisoned? How could he not see that he was innocent?

“Solitary confinement is doing wonders for you, Light.” Yes, definitely mockery.

“Thank you for that delightful compliment, Ryuzaki. Your charming personality is just what I wanted to hear. ” Keep your head down, emotions cool. Do not think about punching Ryuzaki from beyond your cell walls. This is how they interacted, unless L was trying to pry meaningless information out of him at random intervals. They spoke in witty commentary, layers of sarcasm and jeers designed to frustrate the other. It was more difficult when L was looking over him like some omnipotent overlord, and Light felt as if he was talking to the brick wall. He didn’t like L being able to see his facial expressions without having nothing to pick apart in return.

“The results have been quite interesting so far.” L’s voice sounded out into his small room, reverberating around Light’ ears. Crackly static ended most of L’s words.

“Once again, you have a mass murderer to catch. As enthralling as I am, Ryuzaki, your priorities are slightly skewed.”

“I have my prime Kira suspect in custody. I am doing my job.” Light looked upwards, towards the camera and speaker in the corner of his room, squaring his eyes as if he could pierce them through L in another room. He wanted to match L with a glare of his own.

“Besides, you asked to be put here, Light. Don’t you remember that?”

He did. Barely, but he did. It was only a few weeks ago (unless L was lying to Light in telling him how long its been) but it felt so far. Like it had been years ago. He couldn’t understand what had possessed him to turn himself over; and why had L agreed?

“I remember, Ryuzaki.” Not a lie; an omittance. He didn’t need to give L any more ammunition than he already did; knowing he was having gaps in his memory was worse enough.

“Good. Please do remember that fact.” Light grit his teeth. Bastard.

“Oh, before I forget, how is your back, Light?” What?

“Huh?”

“Your back. You were having issues with it for a few weeks, if I do recall. Tensing, experiencing muscle spasms, the like.” Not a shred of concern in his voice, even though Light knew he could emulate worry if he really tried. No, this was something else. L didn’t care about his previous back pain that he could hardly remember, for fucks sake.

“Its… fine.”

“If you say so. Enjoy your stay, Light.”

The line crackled, L abruptly cutting off after the turn of conversation. That was that.

He calculated the area of his box room as a hopeful past time. Light slunk back into boredom.

*

The more Light searches, the less he finds.

There's a big gaping hole in him, somewhere. He's cracked, and things have been able to slip out, going unnoticed. The more Light tries to piece his memories back together, the more he examines and prods the mass sitting directly in is chest, the less answers he receives.

His brown hair sways in front of his eyes. Its dirty and sticking to him in all the wrong places, getting rough and dishevelled around the nape of his neck. He’d stopped caring about appearances long ago. He’d stopped caring about dignity, not when L was observing every second of the day, analysing every twitch and word and expression.

He swears he's getting a crick in his neck with the amount of time he sits hunched over, head falling down to look into his lap, eyes away and face hidden from the camera. The one mercy he's awarding himself. The most distance he can put between himself and L. Its a futile, weak attempt, but at this point its all he has. His neck aches. It reminds him of L’s comment about his back pain.

Everyday (day? hour? week?) L would intermittently drop in, drawl his customary few words of “No other criminals have been killed, Light”, they’d swap jibes about how much the other annoys them with their presence, and he would leave. Well, not exactly leave, since Light could feel those cold eyes staring at him through the camera, boring into his skin, examining him like an object. L didn’t leave- he was a constant entity, an omnipresent god. His neck fucking ached.
There's nothing to find, he eventually realises. He could wander the corridors of his memories and his thoughts and debate why he turned himself in, and Light didn’t think he’d find the answer. He never thought he’d be so affected by solitary confinement- he had ample experience with the police before, he knew what punishments were like for criminals. But he had always remained as an onlooker, a witness to what was a due punishment for a human deserving that treatment. Complete isolation. Cut off. Alone, in silence.

Light had assumed that he would remain steady throughout such an experience. Not that he’d ever thought he’d be subject to such a thing- treated like a killer, a criminal, a worthless specimen of humanity. Caged up and chained, with L’s low tones here to narrate the whole trial, to taunt him through the bars of his cell. He had thought that no social interaction would not break him, would not make him pitiful as it did the others.

Light hadn’t realised that sealing him in with his own mind and nothing else would be as harmful as it was proving to be.

Light needed escape. He needed to be away from the inner workings of his thoughts, for a long period if necessary. He also needed to be locked away and prove to L he was not Kira. He needed to understand what that Light Yagami wanted to do.

He had a lot of time to try and find out. But there was nothing to find.

*

Light had eventually become a blur. A person stuck together with twigs and twine, his thoughts messy. The eons he had spent inside those walls, walking in circles inside his head.

Then, he walks out. Out of the cell, that tiny box room, only to be trapped inside the car with his deranged father behind the wheel. Misa’s screams are hoarse, full of terror, and Light struggles hopelessly against the handcuffs and chains on his body. The air is filled with his panicked pleading, staring at that man- the stranger- that had his face set in stone, securing Light’s fate. Death. He was being taken to his death.

He twisted and writhed in the backseat of the car, the dark night streaming past his window, heart pounding as he refused to accept the situation. Could not fathom the idea that it would end here, that he was right, that there was nothing waiting for him once he got out, only imprisonment and then the eternal chains of the afterlife that awaited him. The panic surged, building in every crevice of his body, and Light could not understand. He had become some numb over his captivity, the monotony dragging him out and thinning him down, feeling nothing. Now, in the ambushed corner of the car, seeing the man drive him to his death, he felt so much. Too much. As if everything was short circuiting, and his mind couldn’t keep up. He could not understand what was happening, could see no rational explanation. His mind was tearing at the seams, and only instinct and survival and alarm was pushing him onward. He could not reason with what L was doing, that L was allowing this, was leaving Light as a bloody corpse in the wake of his miscalculation.

Soichiro Yagami twisted the steering wheel, and the car went hurtling down an offramp, the night enclosing them, catching up on them. The frantic screaming did not make sense. His thoughts did not make sense.

They abruptly stopped in a barren piece of land, empty and desolate, the last place Light Yagami would see.

Words ripped through his throat. “Stop! I’m not Kira! I’m not Kira!”

He chanted it, breaths rapidly quickening, heart bursting with the dread and the utter horror of it all. Misa continued to shriek next to him, tears rolling down her cheek, her voice cracked and pleading, the sounds of a person in distress. The terror was something so strong, so all encompassing, lighting his blood on fire. He could not run, could only stare into the cold, hard abyss, the finale that he could’ve never imagined for himself.

Soichiro Yagami sneers and says the damning words, telling Light how hes going to be buried and rot away into nothingness because of L’s mistake. Because of L’s oversight and his fathers insanity. Soichiro Yagami tells him how hes going to be executed, like a murderer, a rapist, a piece of scum that doesn’t deserve to walk the Earth. He was going to share their fates with them, put through the same experiences as them, his pride and dignity washed away in his own blood. In his final moments, Light Yagami was going to be known as a killer, as Kira, joining the rest of the criminals that stained humanity.

The thought was revolting. It churned and stirred, making his nauseous. He was going to be remembered as nothing, as L’s trophy, and it was sickening. His whole body was pounding, as if rearing up in anger at such a conclusion to what was going to be a precious life. Light Yagami was going to be someone, achieve something, get rid of evil. And L, Kira, had taken it all away from him.

The only thing left inside was fury and regret, overtaking any sense of rationality or thought. There was only despair, watching his own father reveal the shiny grey of his gun, the cold metal with which he was going to execute his son. Send him to hell. Send himself to hell right after.

His finger tightened on the trigger, hands wrapped around the gun, Light’s emotions coiling and burning and wanting release.

“I’m not Kira! I’m not Kira!” Like a mantra, a warchant, his final words.

He was going to see his own father, so barely unrecognisable, pull the trigger that would send a bullet tearing into Light’s skull. And all he could do was sit there, chained, not thinking at all, because everything was drenched in regret and anger and pure instinct, his body was tearing apart-

Despite his eyes being wide open, he didn’t see his father pull the trigger. He heard it instead. A singular shot rang out and reverberated in his ears.

Before him was a wall of black feathers. A chasm where his world split, where the void began in front of his very eyes. Where just a moment ago he face-to-face with death, with the reality of nothingness. Now, Light Yagami was facing everything that formed himself.

The hard muscles that had cracked open the flesh of his back, punched through bone, rising up behind him and before him, a black mass of fury and pain and fear. Feathers, their spines twisted and warped, the wisps coated in thick blood, dripping off of them and merging into the expanse. His own emotions had called them forward, presented them to himself, wanting to be saved, to survive and prove more. Two burned wings had emerged from his back, folding and expanding, covering his face to protect and save Light from what would’ve been his death, a bullet to his head. His end. Something within had summoned the reality of wings.

The breath was knocked out from his lungs. He started hyperventilating, feeling the weight of the creations on his back, pressed up against the side of the car window, bent to protect his face from what would’ve been the gun. They twitched and shook in tandem to Light’s stuttering mind, still reeling on the panic-induced high of the fear, and Light pulled back, face etched in horror as he looked at them.

The wings enclosed him, moving sporadically as if beating against the confined space of the car. His lungs were heaving, heart repeatedly pounding against his ribcage. He had wings. Wings had come from him, and it was painful. Wings had appeared in an effort to save his life. He wasn’t dead.

“Thank goodness.” His father’s words were muffled from the outside of his enclosure of feathers and tendons, the blood slowly leaking onto his lap. The pain in the flesh of his back was distant, far away, the adrenaline masking it all. He could hear his father set down the gun, throw it down, releasing an audible breath.

He had heard the gunshot. And he wasn’t dead. Had the wings really spared his life?

“A blank!?” Misa cried from beside him.

A blank. It was a blank. But his mind was still shattered, unable to piece anything together, the shock slamming into him all at once. The emotion festered and imprinted, confusion joining the mix, because was he hallucinating? What was he seeing?

He continues, open-mouthed, to gape at the curling forms around his back and slowly retreating from the front of his face. They curved inwards, still hopelessly cramped against the roof of the car, now pushed back not to obscure Light’s vision. A feverish, twitching entangle of foreign limbs and weight pressing down on him from above.

Light couldn’t understand what was happening. His father was raking his hands through his hair, relaxing into the seat of his car, and Misa was demanding answers, tear tracks still staining her face, looking directly at the older Yagami. Neither was staring or screaming in horror at the wings that had surrounded him. Neither were noticing them, seeing the black masses that had ruptured from his skin at the last second as the trigger was pulled. The wings were invisible to them, his father looking straight into Light’s wide, brown eyes in the rear view mirror. Not sparing a glance at the existing wings trapped against his shoulders. The wings simply existed to Light himself.

“I did this because I knew you weren’t Kira.” His father said, turning around to look at Light face-on, his words emanating regret and a newfound hope. “This proves it.” He seemed so relieved, so weightless.

Light was being dragged down. He couldn’t believe the credibility of his own mind, his own thoughts, his own eyes. It truly must be a hallucination. Of the trauma of his near-death experience.

Light shuddered, not answering his father in the slightest, trembling against the backseat of the car, feeling every joint in the muscles contract and bend. This was a nightmare. He wasn’t dead. So what was happening? It was only him, him and the wings. Nobody else could see them.

“I’m not Kira.” Were the only words that were able to be formed on his tongue. They were familiar and default, muscle memory, settling in the air. His throat was hoarse and shaky, rasping the words out as much as he said them.

“I’m not Kira.”

His wings flinched and parted, expanding in front of Light’s eyes, signalling otherwise.

*

There is a singular, silvery chain fixing Light to L.

It hits the furniture as they move, colliding with the walls, rattling as they learn to manoeuvre around it and each other. As if in orbit, they circle around, pulled together by the force of the chain on their wrists. It jolts as they attempt to break out, away from the other, only to drag them back in.

Its been one week since L attached the handcuffs onto his wrist. A whole week after his supposed death, his execution, was supposed to take place. A week after Light grew wings in utter desperation in the backseat of that car.

The more he looks, the less he finds. He wasn’t thinking when it happened. Any amount of thought wasn’t going to change things now.

Currently, they’re in L’s new secret facility for the Task Force, a building like nothing Light had ever seen before. An entire building dedicated to tracking down Kira, inhabited by only a handful of people. Promptly after having Watari chain them together, L had led him into their shared room, a large space with floor-to-ceiling windows and two beds barely an arms length apart.

Light’s immediate reaction had been one of horror as he realised he’d not only be spending every waking moment with the man, but his sleeping ones, too. L had looked at him dead-pan, raising a hand to his mess of black hair, the chain clinking, speaking with a pointed- “We share every second together now, Light.”

A week had passed. Light made every attempt to spend the least time in that room as possible. L, surprisingly enough, had never noticed, or at least complained, that Light would drag out his day until the last possible second, finding every excuse to stay in the main area, until he had to eventually drag both him and L into their shared quarters to sleep. Or, for Light to sleep. L, ever consistent, continued to be a walking ghost, sleeping sporadically if it all. L would always be awake whenever Light saw him-the first thing he saw each morning as he woke up was L’s back as he sat tangled on the edge of Light’s bed, laptop balanced on his knees. The chain would extend past him, glinting in the morning sun. One week, and it was already becoming routine.

That was mornings. Now, as the day stretched on, they sat in the main Task Force area, the large echoing room and its expansive screen that strained Light’s neck as he constantly looked up at it. Hes doing research on the last batch of human souls Kira had taken, correlating their names to each other. He couldn’t find anything of value.

L jangles the chain with a pointed message, yanking Light’s wrist away from the keyboard of the computer. His fingers jolt and type random letters onto the screen at the sudden movement, and Light scowls, as he often does in L’s presence.

“Light.” L sits crouched in his chair, legs pulled up to his chest. His right thumb is touching his bottom lip. The pale skin is a stark contrast to everybody else's in the room, the bled hue betraying his foreign roots. Nobody could look that deprived of sunlight naturally, Light thought. L defied nature.

“Ryuzaki.”

“Can you tell me what you remember, again?” The same question, the same tone. It was much more welcome than ‘no more criminals, Light’, but he still felt as if he was under interrogation, under the others haunting eyes.

Light raised his eyebrows, watching the man raise a single chocolate eclair to his mouth, swiping at the dripping chocolate. His hands were dangerously close to becoming covered and staining the pristine workspace Light required in order to think. To actually work, Light needed the silence and the stability of cleanliness, whilst L, apparently, needed constant sugary confections and his signature crouch.

“I remember being confined for a long time. After which, I remember-”

“No, Light. Not the confinement. Before that. What's the last thing you remember?” L swallowed, licking his fingers clean. Light looked on in confusion. He hadn’t heard this divergence in the question before.

Light spared a glance at his father, who was sat at the side in the vast room, watching on with a steeled expression on his face. Light’s father had become more resolute since the mock execution stunt, and him and Light were on strange terms. He couldn’t get the image him pointing a gun at his head fade.

“I came to the hotel room and said I suspected myself of being Kira.”

“Oh.” L paused, owlish eyes blinking. “I apologise. I meant the last thing you remember of us. Our conversation, Light. What did I say?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said something very distinct. As did you, if I recall. I simply want to test how far back your memory is obstructed.”

Everything too far back was a haze. Everything that wasn’t layered and saturated with some type of anger, dread or hate wasn’t clear to him. The rest were half-memories, half-lives, that he’d had and were now too far out of his reach to grab onto.

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Ryuzaki.” Light matched the others stare, face passive. He wasn’t going to be able to pull direct quotes from memories he could barely keep, if thats what L wanted.

Fuck. He realised. L had said something important, something ‘distinct’ for the sole reason of seeing if Light remembered it later on. And Light didn’t know what it was. Which meant L knew he was having gaps in his memory after leaving the cell.

“I said something quite unusual for the nature of our relationship, Light. I made that conversation quite unique. We were in the hotel room. It was a day before Miss Amane’s arrest, four days before yours.”

L continued to lounge in his chair, the chain shifting as the man moved to pull his chair closer to Light’s. He gave off the impression that he moved without thought; Light knew this, could see it everyday. L acted as if his life held no meaning, as if he worked unconsciously, tried to give off an unassuming manner in his movements. In reality, every step was a calculated misdirection, each word was planned out and weighed, every move was a risk, a card in L’s infinite hand of Jokers. Light knew the other continued to assert his claim that Light was Kira; the chain was living, breathing proof of it.

He had to navigate L’s traps of drawing him into a false trail. A catch where he would somehow show himself to be the very thing L desired the most. This was where was going to trip up. L had laid things out carefully, as he always did.

“Its been months, L. I don’t remember strange conversations that you didn’t make clear were something to remember.” His voice was irate, lowering in tone, his annoyance showing on his face.

L hummed, turning away, pushing his chair back from Light to return to his place before his computer. He was facing away from him, the attention that was fixed on him solely for about one minute now dedicated to the long list of names written down on the screen.

The room remained silent for a few seconds. Light turned himself towards his computer as well, hoping that was the end of the conversation. Hoping L wouldn’t go too far.

“As I feared, I’m afraid.”

Of course, L wouldn’t stop.

“What are you saying?” Light questioned, eyes gleaming, because L was acting smug and satisfied, which never failed in rubbing Light the wrong way.

“Your memory loss, along with Miss Amane’s, is quite damning, Light. I have almost no doubt now that you were both Kiras at one time.” He raised his finger to his lips.

Silence. The slow hum of the computers buzzed in the background, but inside and out of Light there was only silence. L remained with his stoic expression, pressed up against the back of the chair, barely sparing a glance at Light, whose anger was quickly rising to the surface of his skin.

“I’m not Kira.” He grit his teeth, the words spiked with annoyance, but L would not be swayed otherwise, he knew. Every moment outside of the cell was borrowed time, the lull until L found concrete evidence or fabricated a theory that Light was undeniably guilty. Light didn’t like knowing that L had the upper hand over him here.

Mostly because of Light’s own failings. He had walked into that cell and emerged another man. Before, he had somehow convinced himself that having L arrest him was a good idea. He had come out without clear memory, unprepared for whatever trap L was planning to push him into now, and now had a silver chain linking him to the other man like a vice. He had been subjected to a gun pointing to his forehead, signalling certain death, and had hallucinated (summoned?) a black monstrosity before his very eyes.

But Light Yagami wasn’t one to simply lie down and take it. He would divert his course from ending up in L’s clutches, and would make something of himself. He had looked the end in the eye, had seen what he had nearly lost, and it made him appreciate what he had tenfold. Light was going to make something of himself, defy all of L’s expectations. Light was not Kira, simply experiencing an odd fallout from months in isolation, and he was going to solve the Kira case. Find the one currently murdering the lists of people that were rolled out onto the screen.

“Perhaps now you’re not, no. Its why I decided to let you out.” L’s finger tapped lightly at his keyboard. Light narrowed his eyes, shifting his body to appear less threatened than he felt.

“You should’ve let me out as soon as the killings started again. I do not have much faith in your decisions concerning my confinement as of late.” It was hard to keep the bitterness out of his words. Ryuzaki was just too damn infuriating.

His father, who had been listening in on the conversation mutely, suddenly spoke from the side of the room.

“Ryuzaki, I thought we agreed that if Light didn’t show himself to be Kira during the stunt, that he was going to be taken off suspicion. Now you’re saying he’s definitely Kira.” The words were blunt, the forceful assertiveness that Light had often experienced his father showing whilst working. The same force that had terrified Light so much in the back of that car.

L was silent, his hands stilling on the keyboard for a few seconds.

“I think both of you misunderstand,” He spoke, turning to look at Light, the chain dangling by his side, “I never said you are Kira. I do not believe that you are currently the person committing these murders. However, the amnesia, shared by both you and Miss Amane, does point to some unknown power that is most likely linked to Kira. The power he holds is becoming more and more relevant.” He pauses, feet shifting. The whole task force was listening now, moving away from their various tasks.

“Light, I’m sure you would’ve remembered that conversation. You not being able to recall those words show that you were under Kira’s influence before your confinement. Furthermore, you possess the intellect to be able to undertake the title of Kira. You got close to Misa Amane, who we have proved was the Second Kira undeniably through DNA evidence. I do not doubt that you have been Kira in the past. Which is why I’m keeping you here.”

The words struck all the people in the room, including Soichiro, as his mask broke at the resolute conclusion. He took a step backwards from L. Light swallowed, trying to push back the worry from showing on his face. The fear. The thought that L was going to kill him and leave him as nothing. Remembered as Kira.

“How? What even is Kira?” Matsuda spoke up, breaking the shocked quiet that had descended. The thought that Kira was endless was making the hair on Light’s back shiver.

L had spoken the words. The best detective, the fabled L, had concluded that Light must have been Kira.

He was weaker now. He was experiencing memory loss, a haziness to his surroundings. The experience with the phantom wings still raked and twisted in his mind. The power of Kira that had been passed to him and then… taken away. Were the hallucinations a remnant of it?

Light stayed silent. A response didn’t seem necessary.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Matsuda. Whatever power it may be, it seems that it must be possessed by a human to be used. And that means we’ll be able to find them.” L didn’t seem to share the same sullen anxiety that everybody else in the room did. It had always seemed that he remained a step above such emotions, such weaknesses.

Light was very much victim to weakness. He just wouldn’t let it show outwardly, wouldn’t let his father see how much the death sentence had affected him.

The image of a black feathery wall before his eyes, blocking out the man at the wheel, Misa, and the world outside the windows. A hallucination, but it had felt so very much real. As if he could still feel them pressing up against the hard glass, trapped and contained.

“Light? You will work with me to find Kira, yes?” L’s slow tone snapped Light from his reverie. He looked upwards from where he was staring down at the floor, into L’s curious expression, searching eyes, taking in Light’s posture and face. Reading his thoughts off of him.

“That's why you let me out, isn’t it?”

“I decided that your input would be quite beneficial in finding the new Kira.”

Light nodded, swallowing hard.

He turned to his desk, shifting his chair closer with his foot, the chain on his wrist jolting as he moved. A singular thread that tied him to L, the last remains of the shackles that he had expected to be free from. Instead, L had crowned him Kira. L had come to the conclusion that he was Kira, mass murderer, a slaughterer of thousands. Had said he had the intellect and drive for it.

Light wanted to dismiss it entirely. The mantra of ‘I’m not Kira!’ had become so second nature to him now that considering otherwise was like a punch to the gut. He didn’t want to face the reality of what the Other Light Yagami had maybe done, what he had been before he had given himself up to be placed in a cell. Why did he feel so detached from that person, that thing, a creature that could hardly form memories of his own family members? Could only be cruel and angry and spiteful, the only core beliefs that had been left in his life? The only things Light could remember of himself for the past year?

He found it hard to continue staring at the list of names. The letters blurred into each other, creating a singular line of symbols and jargon, unrecognisable threads that spelt out one Light’s worries and weaknesses like blood spilt on a page. Stark, threatening, and painful.

Somehow, he forced words out his throat, matching L’s gaze with his own. Knew L could sense every inaccuracy, every breath before it exited his lungs, had defined and redefined Light’s existence.

“We’ll find Kira, L.”

That night, after dragging himself and L to their shared room at midnight, he found that his back had started to ache.

*

The windows are open to let in the cooler evening air, and through them Light can hear the soft sounds of animals and the rushing of wind. He wished that their shared room was further down on one of the lower levels; maybe then he’d be able to hear the mutterings and liveliness of people on the street, of cars and traffic. Everything was just too silent, and Light needed things to fill the empty space. The atmosphere was drained.

He was sat on his bed in the room, an arms length away from L, who was crouched near the headrest of his own bed, a book in hand. The chain would randomly tug Light forward if L made too sharp of a movement, causing Light to drop things periodically and overall infuriate him. L continued to act as if he was the only person in existence.

It was late in the evening, and through the small slits in the curtains Light could make out the moon beaming in to create patterns on the floor. The whole day had been spent planning out and theorising, L continuing to spill out accusations of Kira without a care in the world. Often, Light allowed himself the small mercy of lunging at him; L would say something that sent him off the edge, the chain would tense, and Light would be on his feet, threatening to hit Ryuzaki if he didn’t shut up. And then L would say something just as insulting, or rage-inducing, and Light’s threat would become reality.

They had spent a good portion of the day at each others throats, rolling and wrestling each other on the floor until Matsuda pulled them apart.

The anger still simmered underneath the surface, especially when L had looked so nonplussed and unbothered whilst Light was visibly enraged. Even when they were sparring, Light locked on target to strange the words right out of his neck, L would kick him languidly and evade every move, slipping out his grasp. Sometimes, Light could swear he saw the hint of amusement on the others face, taking pleasure out of seeing Light so animated. So real, for once, letting all his emotions manifest into reality. Even if they did throw L onto the floor at random intervals.

Life inside the large glass box that L had constructed for him as a glorified cell was becoming harder and harder to handle. Especially when he was facing the fact that he had been Kira from every corner. When L had spelt it out so plainly, in front of everybody else.

Light watched as L shuffled on his bed with his book, the sheets shifting around him. The small camera blinked red in the corner of the room, Watari no doubt, who trailed after L like a butler as well as imposing father figure. Light didn’t enjoy the feeling of being constantly monitored. Glorified jail cell indeed.

He was about to turn round and lie down, attempting to sleep in the sweltering silence, when he noticed the title of L’s book on the front cover; “Tales of Japan: Mythology and Folklore”

Mythology… folklore…

“I doubt Kira will be found in old wive’s tales, Ryuzaki.”

At the sound of Light’s voice, L turned around the face him, hand stilling on the pages of the large book. He twisted around, the chain chittering, and Light staring impassively.

“They may have something of value to us. About Kira’s abilities.” L’s fingers traced the lettering on the cover. The moon beamed down in the corner.

Light reached out hand towards him, his fingers splayed out. L raised his eyebrows curiously, before handing over the hardback book, movements slow and assessing.

“Have you found anything?” Light set the book down onto his legs, flicking through the pages and taking in the information. There seemed to be large sections about mythological beasts and spirit-creatures, ranging from unrecognisable entities to humanoid beings. The depictions were colourful, showing in-depth annotations of extinct beliefs and Japanese folklore. Some parts described the Japanese gods that Light had some knowledge in, staring at the large portrait of Amaterasu Ōmikam, the sun goddess. He continued to glance at the pages, L shuffling over, nearer to him. The other sat at his left side, chain twitching.

“I’ve mostly been focusing on the Shinigami. They seem to be of most relevance, since the Kiras mentioned it themselves.”

Shinigami. Light could hardly remember that word, searching out for it in the long depths of his memory.

L took it upon himself to drag the book closer to him, long fingers turning large sections until he reached the article that he’d been reading previously. A large block of text spilled itself out onto the page, surrounded by diagrams and images of modern depictions of Shinigami.

“Traditionally, Shinigami take souls to their final resting place. They’re agents for the afterlife, so to speak.”

“Is there any mention of them having similar powers to what Kira has?”

L shook his head, the black hair shifting from around his eyes. He sighed, looking put out in that very childish, comical way of his.,

“No. In fact, its repeatedly mentioned that they aren’t believed to be death itself. Nothing about them having the power to kill humans. Or take away memories, for that matter.” He sounded annoyed, as if this singular book couldn’t explain Kira’s entire existence.

Light’s eyes searched the page, assessing random drawings and pictures. He hesitated at the depictions of some of them; large Grim Reapers wielding scythes and hooded in black. Sable wings flared out behind them, attached to them, making the being more imposing and frightful. Light’s back twinged. The sight was awfully close to the ones he felt he had seen that day.

“This is only one person’s interpretation, Ryuzaki. There might be more that we’re missing.” Something in Light wanted to know more. He wanted to know about the power he had apparently once yielded. Wanted to face what had ripped up his back and his memories, had been haunting him the entire time in that cell and now out.

“I’m having Watari bring more books.” L spoke curtly.

Light could still pick out the sounds of cicada from outside, filling and infiltrating the air around them. The moonlight joined in, streaming through cracks in the blinds. It reflected of L’s pearlescent skin and the silver chain between them.

“The conversation I had to remember. What was it?” He fixed his eyes downwards, staring at that figure. Large, sweeping wings, covered in inky blackness. It felt as if he couldn’t look away.

No response. Light kept focused on that image, the thing L had said he’d become. The memories that had been taken from him. The wings that his mind had kept. The creature Kira was.

“L. What was it?”

“We were playing the game, Light. Me and Kira. You and me.”

He sounded subdued, morose. Crouched next to Light’s left side, his tone was quiet and solemn.

“All of that. I don’t remember it, Ryuzaki. Tell me what I should’ve remembered.” The image was getting burned into his retinas, his mind. The artists depiction of death, of slaughter, of taking and owning souls and lives. Kira’s power and influence, like the sweeping scythe, reaping people and dragging them up from the ground, dissolving them into nonexistence.

“I tell you that, and I lose.”

L stood abruptly, leaving the book clutched in Light’s hands, the chain twisting as he moved. L lay down, curling up onto his own bed, back facing Light. The same sight he got every morning, the inky hair spilling outside out onto the pillow. L said no more. Silence reigned.

Eventually, Light closed the book shut, placing it onto floor before his bed. He lay down in a mimicry of L, feeling the slow and heavy weight of sleep descend upon him on black wings.

Chapter Text

"Absolute power turns its possessors not into a God but an anti-God. For God turned clay into men, while the absolute despot turns men into clay."

- Eric Hoffer

*

Light is flying.

He is airborne, body splayed out and stretched across the sky. The wind is rushing past him, pulling and pushing at his skin, his pulse raging underneath it, trying to join the blasts of air. He is drifting, barely moving, as he continues to soar and merge with the sky, the wind, the freedom. Light stitches himself into the life of the world, the blank expanse of the clouds that he is flying with. There's a city below him, underneath him; his city, Tokyo. Beneath his eyes, there are humans, people, lives. From up here, he can assess and observe them, can point out and capture every detail of their minuscule, cramped lives. Light soars above it all.

It is exhilarating. He is utterly weightless, gliding without thought, his arms outstretched at his sides, as if trying to catch the air. He feels so bare; and yet so alive. His hair falls into his eyes, brushes against his neck. He can hear only himself; the deep breaths entering his lungs, the racing pounding of his heart, and strong, concise wingbeats. The rhythm. The steady beat, the ever present pulse, behind him and attached to him and part of him. It thumps in tandem with his heart.

He is everything. The people below cannot see him, do not even care to look up. Light is everything he could ever hope to be.

He flies, chasing the high, the euphoria, the want. He goes higher, blinks in and out of existence as the clouds cover and hide him from the world. As he rises, the air gets thinner and thinner, his lungs racing for breath, his blood retaining less and less oxygen. He continues to climb to the summit, aching to reach the Heavens. The ethereal plane, his own paradise that he has crafted and built for himself. Light Yagami grasps for Heaven to the pounding chant of his wings, wanting to find that perfect place, that untouched landscape where he would be away from the world in its entirety. He is lost in the rhythm, the rushing air, the demand of his own heart.

On the horizon, his eyes see the Sun. It is dripping gold, and it hurts him to look at it, recoiling at its power. The further he flies, the closer it gets, every wingbeat bringing that eternal fire and heat nearer to him. He cannot stop, cannot halt his own movements. There is only flight, only ascension, the rising want to be above all else.

His fingertips brush the rays. His hand is dipped in its brilliant gold, the shining embers. It is euphoric.

It then begins to burn the flesh off his hand. Fire surges up his arm, coils and tightens around his shoulders, lances down his back and spine. It reaches his wings, the magnificent creations. And they begin to disintegrate, come undone under the heat and fire, feathers and flesh melting off the bones. Light gasps, begins to flurry and grapple in panic, the blaze raking up and down his body, forcing the muscles in his wings apart until they yield completely.

Light Yagami falls, his stomach dropping, blood rising to his throat. He chokes on it. His wings become a tangled mess of burnt feathers that fall alongside him, escaping to the winds, claimed by nature. He plummets downwards, away from the sight of the Sun, screaming, hoarse, bloody.

An eternity of hellfire passes. He hits the Earth, but by that point he has been reduced into nonexistence. Into nothing. He lands amongst the people, surrounded by his city.

*

Light jolts awake, wheezing uncontrollably. His chest is constricting him, pressing down heavily and forcefully, directly onto his windpipe.

It is dark in the room, and it is comforting, because behind his eyelids Light can see it all. The rising sun, the clouds, the blinking lights of Tokyo. The burn, etched into his retinas. As if he had lived through it himself. It was a dream. It was a nightmare.

He immediately sits up, wanting to draw in more air. He acts on base instinct, shaking, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Could feel his pulse quickening to match his lungs, could hear the rhythm in his ears.

Trembling, he raises a single hand to his forehead to feel his skin, alight and feverish. Flushed and hot, he attempts to move, wanting to get away from the blankets and warmth of the bed, only to find himself pulled back by the chain. He is forced backwards, the cuff on his wrist disallowing any chance at movement or escape. His body shakes, and Light draws in lungfuls of air like a dying man, in short gasps that reverberate around the room. It was a nightmare. The feeling of the Sun setting his nerves on fire was a nightmare.

His wrist is yanked, moving towards the other side of the room, away from his face. It was taking all his energy to try and stop himself from collapsing backwards, to try and make sure he did not fall again. In that singular moment, he was thankful for the chain. It rooted him in place.

He spared a glance to the side, towards the other bed on the other side of the room. All he could make out was L’s dark silhouette, his general shape on the bed, his hair camouflaging into the darkness. Could make out the pale skin of L’s hand clutching the chain, keeping it tense, wrapped around his fingers. Was pulling on it, tugging to closer to him with sharp movements.

“You are having a nightmare, Light.”

He is still trying to reign in his breaths, attempting to regulate himself. He can feel the heat emanating from his skin, coming off him in waves. His mind is spinning, hazy, the darkness swirling and mixing around him.

“You are having a nightmare, Light.”

The monotone, steady voice, deep and cutting. L is sat somewhere on his bed, and is keeping the chain tight, pulling at Light’s wrist at random intervals. That singular grip on him, on the chain, is all that is keeping Light tethered to the world.

L just repeats his words. Light latches onto them, but he does not react. He receives sharp jolts through his arm movements that slowly but surely remind him of the present.

Once his panicked breaths aren’t filling the room, Light begins to unravel. His tense body unwinds, adrenaline recedes, and his skin begins to calm, heat escaping. The image of the Sun fades into his memory instead of being carved into his vision, and Light swallows in an attempt to soothe is hoarse throat. He sits, exhausted, amongst his splayed sheets. The darkness is welcoming.

Light can only bring himself to nod. He does not look up once again, keeps his eyes downwards. L stops talking, and Light feels the grip on the chain go lax, because his wrist is not suspended any longer. L recedes back into the darkness, away from Light. Light can only twitch and shiver in the aftermath, counting every steady breath.

He hears the rustling of sheets, of L moving on his own bed. Turning in what Light assumes is his sleep.

He sits there, simply staring into the darkness of the room, for hours. He stares into the blackout until small slithers of sunlight crawl in through cracks in the blinds, through the open window. The floor is soon patterned with the rays and shadows, and Light watches them, unwilling and unable to try and fall back asleep.

Through the movement of the light and the rising of the sun, he calculates that it is 5am when L presumably wakes, the sound of shifting on his left, sheets rustling. The chain remains relaxed, a long trail between them, a fissure linking them to one another. A crack from one bed to the other.

“Watari, please bring us something to eat. We will be starting early today.”

So interesting, that L had said he was having a nightmare. Not had, but having.

He rubbed his wrist unconsciously, feeling the groves of the handcuff, the indents it had slowly made into his skin. Light rises alongside L, unfolds himself from his seated position, walks and acts as if it had all disappeared from memory. He avoided looking at L too closely.

The sun beamed down on him from all directions, from every window, from every corner of the room. It was the final nail that solidified L’s theory- that yes, Light was having a nightmare.

*

Everybody tells him how lucky he is that he’s dating Misa Amane. How pretty she is, how amazing it must be to be dating a supermodel, with her pretty face and perfect body. How distracting she must be to be around.

Misa is not distracting enough, in Light’s opinion. Her enthusiastic speech and theatrical mannerisms aren’t enough to completely draw Light’s attention or thoughts to her. Yes, Misa Amane was not enough. Not nearly enough to make him forget, to distract him entirely. Instead, all he got was punctuated annoyance from her very presence.

It was now August, and despite every room in the grand building being ventilated, Light would find himself swelteringly hot as the days drew on. Outside the large windows, summer was broiling and peaking. Light would usually spend these months walking the city aimlessly until the sun went down, spend hours pouring over books for the following year, going over the itinerary tenfold. His family would drag him out to the beach for a few days, where he would fake gratitude and playfulness, only to count down the seconds until they would return.

This was certainly the first summer he had spent handcuffed to another human being. L was sat lazily next to him on the couch, head tilted on the back of it whenever he truly lounged. Over the past few weeks, Light had regretfully learnt to assess the other man; L was expressive when he wanted to be. In fact, he was as petulant and as prone to mood swings as a child, able to express his moods through body language and facial expressions.

Light had concluded that today was one of his melodramatic days, where he sighed in annoyance that Kira wasn’t simply handing himself in to them. Despite weeks of searching, they couldn’t seem to find a solid lead that could point them to the killer, and the entire team was feeling anxious and uneasy about the lack of direction.

“Are you going to finish that cake?” L pointed lazily to the cake on the table between two seats. Misa crossed her arms in a standoffish manner, scowling.

L, seemingly, was most affected by the standstill in the investigation. Which manifested in more sugar, Light had noted.

“Cake makes you fat. I’m not gonna eat any.”

The sentence was something that would undoubtedly come out of Misa’s mouth without question. At the sound of it, Light found himself finally picking up on the thing that he had noticed when he had first walked in to see Misa; she was definitely thinner than he remembered. Not terribly so, but enough for Light’s inscrutable eye, at least, to tell a difference. He surmised it was due to the stress of the whole ordeal of being chained up for 50 days. Neither of them had come out unscathed.

“Actually, I find that you don’t gain weight as long as you burn calories by using your brain.” L gestured to his head with his fork for emphasis.

If Misa could kill with her dainty, manicured hands, L would be scratched and bleeding out onto the floor by the way she was looking at him.

Light sighed, his legs crossed as he half-listened to Misa bicker and huff in annoyance. She wouldn’t get anywhere with L, but it was at least entertaining to watch her glare daggers in L’s direction, which gave Light the smallest hint of satisfaction. It was one of the only engaging things about the whole meeting. It still wasn’t distracting enough.

He turned his head to the side to watch as L ate the coveted piece of cake, his spindly body folded and curved on his side of the couch. The white shirt remained too big for him, and Light wondered if the man ever got hot. If he had any normal human functions at all. Although, now knowing that he actually slept gave Light some reprieve. He had feared that L stayed awake through the night, observing him. Feared that he had seen Light thrash and panic in his own sleep.

He shook away the thoughts. Distraction was what he was looking for. Misa opposite him, with her accented, irked eyes and stern expression, wasn’t enough. So he began to run down the list of behaviours in his mind, the lists specially reserved for observation and notes on the greatest detective known as L, who was a being and force all on his own. Trying to read L was usually very distracting, as well as engaging. Today, it wasn’t so difficult, and Light began to share in Misa’s annoyance, albeit for a completely different reason.

“What’s wrong with you? I thought moving here was supposed to help us to catch Kira. But since we’ve been here, you don’t seem all that motivated to me.” He stared pointedly at L, saw as Misa’s mouth promptly closed just as she was about to release another insult or poor argument. L’s eyes simply quirked up, meeting his, and he sighed.

“Not motivated?” He paused, thumb to his lips, looking upwards, “You’re right. I’m depressed.”

Distraction, of course, was always easily found in the form of L. Who, without fail, would take Light’s thoughts away from night terrors and hallucinations, and transform them instead into pure aggravation.

“Depressed. What for?”

“Well, here I was, knowing undoubtedly that I had Kira confined and now chained to me.” He lifted his arm to shake the chain, the clinking filling the room, as Light gave him a dirty look. “And the Second Kira was in my custody.” He pointed a single finger at Misa across from them, “And I am now forced to accept the fact that Kira’s abilities do indeed pass between people. That once we catch them, they will most likely be passed onto the next person, and be left with no memory of their crimes. So, in the end, pursuing them becomes futile.”

L stared down into his plate of cake, voice listless and leaden, expressing his now apparent melancholy attitude. He didn’t spare a glance at Light, who was evidently disapproving of L’s lament. He crossed his arms, ignoring Misa for the time being, because L had delivered on his promise of diversion.

“You’re saying you think it’s impossible to catch Kira?” Accusatory.

“Yes. That’s why I’m overwhelmed. Surely you understand, Light.”

“At this point we can’t be sure. Also, you said it yourself that Kira is human, and will trip up eventually. That’s what we’re looking for.” He got closer to L, alert, because he could feel the irritation boiling inside him.

“And then? Do we keep chasing after all the Kiras, until we’ve found hundreds? Does it ever end?” L looked at him, movements stilling, and Light could finally see that it wasn’t all an act. His emotions, at least. Some part of him was genuinely despondent at this new problem, the neverending cycle of Kiras. It only served to anger Light more, knowing that L wasn’t faking it all.

“Weren’t you the one who promised that you’d execute Kira and stop them? Finding Kira is your job.”

“Forgive me, Light, but I will not be hunting down Kira duplicates until the day I die.” What else was L supposed to do? L was the natural balance to Kira, the thing nature created to offset the other. Life and death, consequence and effect, Kira and L. He assumed L would be content hunting down Kira for however long it took.

“Then we find a way to stop the chain. For god’s sake, Ryuzaki, are you so determined to give up and lose?” L couldn’t lose. Not when he was going to help find whatever had become of Light. Not when he was going to find Kira and allow Light to confront him, them, it. L was going to lead them both to it. Light was not going to let the man just give in.

L looked slightly taken aback, moving away from Light and closer inwards of himself. He set down the plate and rested his hands on his knees, eyebrows raising as he looked at Light intriguingly.

“You seem to be quite agitated, Light. Its not often I see you use vernacular-”

“You don’t feel like doing anything just because your genius deduction was wrong and the Kira case hasn’t been solved?” All politeness had gone out the window. L was being ridiculous and childish, so Light would be too.

“Do you want me to just cheer up? No. I’m sorry I can’t. It’s probably better if I just stop trying so hard. By chasing Kira so desperately, we’re just putting our lives risk for nothing. Yes, it’s just a waste of time.” He said it more to the empty space next to Misa than to Light, looking forwards in the direction of air. Light’s eyes widened through sheer lividity. His skin was surely heating up now. Misa moved to place a hand on his arm, crossing the distance between the two sofas, but Light shrugged her off, gaze fixed on the man who was staring off into the distance and refusing to meet his eyes.

“A waste of time… being here, chaining me up, is just a waste of time? Am I hearing you right?” He was getting maddeningly frustrated, frustrated with L’s declaration and apparent melancholy, the feeling that it all would have been for nothing.

“It’s not my deduction that was wrong.” L paused, shifting slightly in his crouched position, face still tilted to the open window and away from Light, “The fact is, I can say that Light Yagami is Kira and Misa Amane is the second Kira. But it won’t be enough to solve the case. And that’s why I’m a little depressed. Is that so unreasonable?”

Light stood up immediately just as he felt his emotions boil beneath his skin, forcing him to move. He wasn’t always like this, so willing to give away thoughts and feelings. But here, when facing something that brought him so much outrage, something as inexcusable as L feeling hopeless, he reacted unconsciously, not wanting to tamper down and keep his face in check. He wanted to yell and curse, throw away the vague statements and ambiguous lines that riddled their communication with one another. Light wanted to be blunt, to the point, and hurtful.

“Yes, yes it is. You’re being extremely unreasonable, Ryuzaki. You sound like you’re completely hopeless because you aren’t able to actually declare that I’m Kira and execute me. You wanted me to be Kira all along, don’t deny it. And now that I’m leashed to you, you have to try and find another suspect. Well, woe betide me, but I’m not fucking Kira, and you actually have to try to and find some one else to pin it on, for once.”

He said it all in one ranting, angry spiel, forcing out his words before the air would run out, or he would force himself to sit down. No, they were words that needed to be said, or they would rot and decay inside him. Things he needed L to know, something he wanted to shout into the man’s unyielding, fortified brain.

The room was silent for a few seconds, something flashing on L’s face as he finished. Miss was sat open-mouthed, staring upwards at Light in surprise, her face animated enough to betray her. Light clenched his teeth, made pointed fists with his hands, digging crescent moons into his skin. L remained rooted in his blank expression, folded up form, eyes fixed on the scenery outside the window. For a moment, Light wondered if he was going to acknowledge what he’d said at all.

Instead, L directed his attention to Misa, and said discernibly; “I should request that we cut this meeting short, Miss Amane. Me and Light have some talking to do, as it seems.”

About to bite back with some more choice words, Light opened his mouth, but L halted him.

“In just a moment, Light. Watari, please turn off the surveillance for the next hour. It won’t be needed.” Just when Light had gotten used to his dramatic tones and sing-song voice, L returned to deadpan, a low drawl as he instructed and played with every piece on display. Sending both Misa and Watari away, leaving just the two of them, and the slowly building tension that infiltrated the air.

The camera’s red blinking light caught the corner of Light’s eye. He then noticed it flicker out of existence, signalling Watari’s leave.

“Huh? Why?” Misa grumbled, arms crossed and pouting, stealing glances at Light who was slowly lowering himself back down to his seat. He was still angry, of course, but was on board with L’s method of approach. Toss out all the extras, all the background pieces, and leave just the two of them.

“Respectfully, Miss Amane, me and Light need to discuss a few things about the case. Confidential information, of course.” Light glared at him, curious as to what ‘confidential information’ he was going to suddenly fabricate, as they hadn’t made any true progress in weeks. He bit his tongue.

Misa took the lie, however. She huffed, looking put out, and stood up and away from them, with a final pointed look at Light. Her shoes clattered on the floorboards as she strolled to the door, swinging it open.

“Worst date ever.” She muttered as she walked out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her.

And then it was them. Light and L, sitting a breadth apart from each other, the tension palpable and heavy in the surroundings. L lifted his gaze to him, those black, bottomless eyes revealing nothing, and twisted a finger around the silver links of the chain. He fiddled with it, rolling it in his palm, tranquil.

“You’re right.”

Light’s head snapped upwards, once again clenching his teeth, because of course L could make anything sound like an insult.

“I wanted you to be Kira. I hate Kira. At the same time, somehow, I was glad you were. I both hated and enjoyed the game we played. You twisted it all for me, Light.” L continued spinning the chain round in his hand, the spirals encircling his fingers. Light was silent, listening to the inflections of his tone, the lilt in his voice. Pushed his hands downwards into the soft material of the couch.

“I see you as both my enemy, and a friend. All matters of deception, of course. You even went as far to deceive your own memory of being Kira, which surprises me. Evidently, you don’t seem like the person who would willingly give something up.”

L pushed the chain forward, yanking Light’s hand towards him, until they were only a small distance apart. Light could see the rigidity and stiffness in the other’s posture, the sharp collarbones barely seen through paper-thin skin and the white shirt. Poised expression and taut stance, L’s eyes hardened, grip tightening on the chain.

Raising his fist in a single fluid motion, Light punched him square in the jaw.

L tensed, being shoved backwards for a few seconds, dragging them both to their feet, before quickly gaining his balance and facing back at Light. The usually crumpled posture of the man who sat crouched before screens day and night extended, preparing to lash back at him, with the fluid grace of someone who had obviously taken self defense classes. Light, quite notably, hadn’t. He punched out of pure instinct and the inability to contain his emotion much longer before it had to find something to latch onto. L glided easily, and raised a long leg to kick Light directly in the face with a powerful jolt.

Light’s world reeled, zooming outwards instantly as the impact collided with the left side of his face, pain blooming on his cheek bone. He felt nauseous.He gritted his teeth, tightening his own fists again, the chain becoming a bothersome nuisance that kept dragging him back into to L, into their fight. The close quarters engagement, the ultimate distraction he craved.

“Your punch hurt. Ow.” L was rubbing his face with one hand, grimacing as he touched the newly forming bruise there.

“I was hoping to knock some sense back into your head.” Light muttered, and to his exasperation, watched as the corners of L’s mouth quirked up a bit.

He stepped forward to engage with him again, grabbing the white shirt tightly in one hand, pulling the other closer to him with force. L swayed, following Light’s grip. He was surprisingly light, for a fully grown man, though Light had thought it impossible to not gain body weight through all the sugar he ate.

They were almost chest to chest, Light’s angry eyes meeting L’s intrigued ones, dark and assessing.

“You enrage me.” Was all he bit out, his fist on L’s exposed skin, ready to mottle that pale skin more if needs be. He felt his blood boiling in his veins, rising to the surface. His face was alive with the pain of his kick, and he was fuelled by their previous conversation, pushed forward by spite. Light could hold spite tenfold.

L slightly relaxed, now tilting his head up to match his eyes. “You’re very welcome, Light.”

He swiped a foot underneath Light’s legs, knocking them out from under him, sending Light immediately to the floor with a groan. His knees buckled as fell onto the floorboards, shins suddenly blaring out in pain. He shouted, then felt the familiar sensation of the pull of the handcuffs; bitterly, he reached to clasp the chain in his hand, sharply pulling it towards him as strong as he could manage. In a matter of seconds, L exclaimed, and came crashing to the floor alongside Light, falling onto his side.

They both grunted, now lying on the floor in a tangled mess of limbs and chains, the hard wood of the floorboards digging into him. His cheekbone blared from L’s kick, and he was still pissed. Light slowly moved to pick his body up off the floor, the tempest of anger accentuated by the pain. He lifted himself from the entrapping weight of L’s lower body, about to lunge at him again, wrap his hands around his neck if he could. Dig into the exposed skin of throat, make him regret even insinuating that he would give up-

L wasn’t looking at him. No, L was looking past him, as if to the wall behind him. But his eyes- those voids, glassy and dazed. Widened, in shock, L’s mouth slowly closing from where he was gaping, that pale face drained of all colour and last dregs of spite.

L’s face was seeping with shock. Fear.

“What-”

And then he realised. Curled up on his shoulders, tense bundles of muscle and feathers lay bunched, alive and defensive. Black swaths like a curtain against the bright light of the sun. It cast shadows onto L in front of him, a dark circle around him, brought on by the wall of- the wings. The delusions of his wings, surely. The hallucinations, the phantom ghosts that would only plague his nightmares, never exist in the real world. Because they weren’t real.

Every ounce of anger and bitterness drained from him in an instant. Light scrambled backwards, feeling the movements of the hulking towers of wings behind him. The broiling energy that he had directed towards L dissipated before his every eyes- instead, it was replaced with dread, confusion and horror.

L was sat motionless, seized up where he had fell, eyes fixed on them, barely breathing. Completely frozen, etched in place, the most still Light had ever see him. As if in awe, paralyzed by what he was seeing.

Light couldn’t bring himself to speak. All words were lost. Why was L reacting? Why were his eyes like that? Why was he seeing them, feeling them, as if they weren’t just figments of his tangled mind and memory? He felt hollow.

After barely ten seconds, the wings folded back in on themselves, bent over in a flurry of feathers and movement, tucked back into non existence. Back into Light’s post-confinement, deranged and delusional mind, because thats where they belonged. In his nightmares, in his terrors. Not here, not when L could see them. Maybe Light was hallucinating that as well. Maybe he was finally breaking down. Maybe L had drugged him?

He slumped forward, entire body relaxing after the things had disappeared, brought back the normalcy and nature to the world. This wasn’t rational.

He looked into L’s tense, strained body still on the floor. The black pits of dilated eyes, the alarm painted into each one of his features.

This was a death sentence. L was going to lock him up, execute him. There was no doubt about it now. He had become living, breathing proof of the very myth and supernatural power that L was looking for. If he was looking for damning evidence, that was it. The very things that screamed out his crimes, the past life he had lived, the scythe he had wielded. Kira in the flesh. Even if he couldn’t remember it.

Light got back to himself faster than L did. Jerkily, he stood up on shaking limbs, his hands trembling. His shins still ached with the impact of the fall, but that hardly mattered to him now. Not when these could be his very last moments outside of the padded cell that L no doubt had prepared for him, the last lungfuls of fresh air he could take. He turned his head towards the open window, the sun still streaming in and hot on his face, reminding him of those dreaded days with his family at the beach.

Kira does not plea. But Light Yagami does.

“I can’t remember it, Ryuzaki. I can’t remember any of it.” He rasped, forcing himself to take a few steps, moving towards the window. Closer to the sun, perhaps the last time he’ll be able to feel its warmth. Looking downwards to the sea of people; Tokyo, his home.
Slowly, almost painfully, L began to unwind. His body shifted from alert and shocked to simply strained, as if bearing a heavy weight. L’s eyes finally moved from where they had been fixed to where Light stood, where the wings had been born. He shifted them towards Light, who was waiting for the guillotine to come down upon him.

“You really were Kira.”

The words came out of L, not Light. They were breathy, lilting, not the blunt stabs that Light was expecting. Not a threat. His gaze dropped from the city below to L, who had begun to shake off the effects of shock. His face was still deathly pale, but he had at least returned to his body; not the frozen, empty stare Light had seen before.

“Yes.” It was mournful.

“Yes. I was right.” L said it more to himself than for Light. He could see the others brain ticking, thoughts coming back into place, expanding his mind on Light, on the absolute knowledge that he was right in what he was chasing all along. That he was certain. Light couldn’t imagine how joyous L was feeling right now.

Light didn’t answer. There was nothing to say, nothing he could do to explain.

“Could you always do that, Light?” Still discordant, unbelieving.

Light’s hands kept shaking. He stood back from the large windows, for his own peace of mind. He took hesitant steps back towards the centre of the room, where L was sprawled out onto the floor, but the other didn’t flinch. Despite looking horrified just a minute prior, he showed no fear at the sight of Light himself, without the wings that shadowed him.

“I was certain they were hallucinations. After getting out of confinement. My father and Misa couldn’t see… it. I can’t control it either.” Could he confess to sins he didn’t even remembering committing? More importantly, could he repent for them?

“You can’t control it. That happened… unconsciously?” L looked up at him, now beginning to fall back into his usual poise. Now, he looked more… intrigued than anything. Curious, wanting more, to fit all the pieces of Kira together.

“Yes. The only other time I saw it were when I thought my father was going to shoot me.” Light clenched his fists to try and stop the shaking. It wasn’t working.

L absorbed this information, taking it in with an open expression. Then, he unravelled his limbs from their ungraceful positon on the floor, slowly winding himself back up into standing. L was putting himself together now, Light noticed. Of course, L was probably ecstatic internally. The best confirmation he could’ve ever hoped for.

“What are you?” Three words, in that even tone. Expecting an answer. One that Light didn’t have. Silence for a few heartbeats.

“I am Light Yagami. I am not Kira.” He was not Kira. He bore the pieces and shreds of him, but he was not him. Kira had gone, left behind a blurry memory and sharp wings, but the person was gone. Not inside Light anymore.

Surprisingly, L only nodded. The chain rattled as he pushed his hair back, away from where it had fallen into his eyes during the earlier scuffle. Light was waiting for the final call. How ironic. Every time he was going to die, preparing for death, the wings had appeared one way or another.

The atmosphere was permeated with unease and tension. When was L going to finally bare his teeth, snarl and bite at him? Lock handcuffs onto his wrists, unattach himself from him, leave him unrooted, upturned, untethered.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. L turned towards it instinctively.

“Light? L?” It was Light’s father, with his distinctive, authoritative voice. He called out from the other side of the door, voice slicing through the tension with a knife.

“We may have found something.” A pattern, maybe? A break in the case?

Light watched as L’s eyes lit up for a brief moment, the possibility of a chance to find the current Kira. Even though he was mournful about finding him earlier, the thing Light had gotten so angry about. L was still hoping, wanting to carry on and beat the game, find Kira. Hungry to find out more, evident in those eyes when he had looked at him. Light had nothing to worry about. L wasn’t going to stop chasing Kira.

Perhaps it would be the one salvation he would get. Being trapped in a cell, but knowing L was out there, hunting the real thing.

L turned, and threw him a final, concluding look. He looked alive, for once, not as weak. The greatest detective that the world knew, L, was staring at him, reading everything off his face. Light couldn’t even bring himself to snap at him, or be bothered. His hands still shook.

L nodded, shifted on his feet, and began walking towards the doorway, where Soichiro Yagami was waiting on the other side. Light was ungraciously dragged alongside him, nearly tripping over his own feet, still off-kilter and unbalanced.

“Today is certainly unpredictable, Mr.Yagami.”

L was a fucking bastard. But the bastard who was going to find Kira, Light was sure of it. He’ll spend his days behind the bars of L’s private cells, and he couldn’t help but feel utterly disgusted by the thought.

*

After that, the air around them is punctuated with anxiety.

Mostly from Light’s end, but he doesn’t let it be visible that often. When they’re in the large room, surrounded by the task force, sat at their respective computers, he is the Light Yagami that they had come to expect of him. Still, being in such close quarters with L is hard. Their communication suddenly becomes off-kilter, straight to the point- L would say something about the case, Light would respond matter of factly, they would theorise, talk about their new Yotsuba lead, and that was it. No agitation, no humorous quips or banter, no discussion other than what L dragged Light out of his cell to do. Since the incident, two days had been spent in a strange state of imbalance.

The others had undoubtedly noticed. Matsuda had spoken about how quiet it had become all of a sudden, now that the empty space wasn’t filled with their bickering back-and-forth. His father had said a few words to him privately, congratulated him on ‘putting himself together’ and not engaging with L as often. Light had only nodded, swallowed hard, the dragged himself away to look up Yotsuba’s stock growth.

Light kept a trained eye on L at most times. He waited until L’s mask would crack in the slightest, his determined, poised self would break. Surely, he couldn’t be entirely unaffected by what had happened. He watched for signs of unease; a flinch when Light would brush past him accidentally, a draw back when he was too close, a prolonged glance whenever Light was in the room. He hadn’t seen any of it. L seemed utterly impassive at most times, hardly altered, and it soothed Light as well as worried him.

Perhaps L really was playing the long game. Making Light think he was free, to deceive him. It seemed like the type of thing L would do, if Light hadn’t seen L’s face when the wings had appeared, jarred and shocked, black eyes frozen in place.

The result is an off-balance, tense aura around the both of them, covering them like a cloud. L acts oblivious to it, acting supposedly like nothing had changed. Light knew better.

The night of the ordeal, after everyone had discussed the Yotsuba lead, and Light had steeled his nerves, he had trailed silently after L into their shared room. He was drained, emotionally exhausted, and wanted nothing more but to erase the past few hours from his mind. Perhaps Kira had that ability, if the infiltration into his long-term memory was clear enough. It was hard to believe that he himself had once possessed such a thing.

Everything around them was stagnant, dormant, the air heavy as L drew the blinds and Light walked beside him in absolute silence. They took their turns locking themselves away from each other in the bathroom, the chain fixed through the crack in the door, and he had gotten changed and ready to sleep just as he usually would. He had neither the want nor energy to even think about bringing up the happenings of a few hours prior, and yet they punched and pounded at him internally, making his head ache. He downed a few painkillers for the headache that had followed him round the whole evening; he would’ve taken something to help him sleep, if he wasn’t wary of L having something done to him whilst he was drugged up.

He had crawled beneath the covers of his sheets, feeling the crisp material on his bare back. He hadn’t even thought to look at it in the mirror, in the horror that it would bare some sort of mark of the wings. Now that they had shown themselves to be less than the initial hallucinations.

He could hear L’s shifting. Then the slow humming of a laptop. The flicker of light caught his eyes when he lay in certain directions. After a few minutes, he could hear it turn back off again, and the room descended into utter darkness.

Neither of them slept that night. Light remained on his back, staring up at the murky ceiling, not willing to turn his back to L for multiple reasons. Instead, he continued to glare at the ceiling until his vision blurred. Despite his brain aching for release, to be able to leave the dreaded silence and disastrous events behind, he stayed awake, watching shapes form and dissipate into the night.

*

Then Matsuda gets himself tangled in the Yotsuba group, dragging Misa alongside him, and they stage a fake accidental death to get him out of it. They do this methodically, presenting ideas to each other at first, before Light settles with L’s. Only because it seemed to be the only one that would ingrain the whole experience into Matsuda, and keep him from future involvement in the future. It’s a success, and they all walk free, Matsuda ten shades paler and Misa eager to show off her outfit to anyone who cares (or in Light’s case, doesn’t). The whole thing seems surreal- the type of thing that Light and L should be talking to each other about, with Light mentioning the various possibilities of how it all could’ve gone wrong, with L responding with similar snark or teasing lilt. Such conversation had become habit, and having it stripped from him made the air empty in its silence.

After the commotion of the night, and returning the vehicle from wherever Wedy had gotten it from, Light and L sift back into the main building, the unspoken weighing on Light as he walked. The chain rattled at their sides, reminding Light every step he took as they made it through the large central room into one of the side hallways. The entire building was a maze of floors and corridors that apparently only L had a mental map to, so Light was grateful that their shared room was in the closest vicinity to the main area. It allowed for less time spent in only L’s presence.

Their footsteps resounded on the floor, small echoes hitting the walls. Something was off. Then again, something had been off since the very second Light had been forced into that car, had a gun pointed at his head, and saw wings.

The action of the night was weighing on him. Even so, Light realised what was ticking him off- the sound of only their echoes, the footfalls of his and L’s feet. Only two. Watari wasn’t following them. Watari wasn’t returning to the building tonight.

It made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He tensed, straightened his posture, walked in tandem with L. They moved into their room, Light following after L, watching the other’s hunched form walk through before him, the knobs of his spine barely visible when he walked.

He closed the door behind him with a click. He debates whether he should lock it, like they usually do- this was just him and L, and he might need some way to escape that wasn’t the large glass windows that faced them on one side. Light steeled himself, forcing his face into one of poise. He locked the door soundly.

As soon as he turned back, his eyes fell upon them. Books. A whole valley of books, it looked like, with volumes stacked upon each other haphazardly, creating mountain ranges across the centre of the room. Some lay on L’s bed, some spilling over onto Light’s, and if a flicker of annoyance passed over his face, L didn’t mention it like he usually would’ve. Light absorbed this, walked forward to pick up the closest one to him, thrown onto his bed covers- ‘Shapeshifters; A History’.

He should’ve known.

“Should I explain?” L was stood as far away as he could from Light, the chain tugging on him resoundly. He walked over to turn on the large overhead light, bathing them all it its bright glow, making the pure number of books more profound, as Light caught them on tables and shelves.

Light dropped the book back down onto his bed. He raised his eyes at L, who was as blank as ever. His words held no real animosity, but they didn’t exactly make Light feel at ease. Shapeshifter. Kira.

“I have been delving deeper into ancient lore. Now that it is quite established that Kira belongs to the supernatural, it’s become important.”

“It’s become important because it can incriminate me, you mean.” For the first time, Light allowed all the bitterness and resentment to pour through into his voice. Two days of fabricated diplomacy, holding back and not pouring salt into the open wound that was the events of that evening, and he was finally able to let it all come to light. Let L hear the thoughts that had been walking in circles in his head.

L moved languidly, barely reacting to his words, shifting a few books off his bed with a lazy hand, throwing them further away. They landed with a dull thud. He sat down in the empty space, pulled his legs closer to him, and jerked his head towards Light.

“I can’t deny that your situation is certainly... intriguing.”

“Call a spade a spade, Ryuzaki. I used to be Kira. It… left a few pieces behind.” Light didn’t have the will to dance and talk circles with L tonight. Couldn’t, when the whole situation was making him raw, exposed, the worst parts of himself having been on display for L to see. Like he had been stripped to his core, and was still trying to build the pieces back up again, to no avail.

L nodded. He didn’t look like the determined, power-driven and elated person that he should be, considering the circumstances. He looked pensive, blank, staring at nothing, his feet rubbing against each other. Where was the glory at being able to arrest Light once and for all?

“Are you going to put me back into confinement?” The question that had been festering on his tongue for days.

L sighed, fingers drumming on the lax material of his jeans.

“No. I won’t.”

Too resolute. L should be threatening him, blackmailing him. None of it came. He was an odd mix of the ghostly presence of L, the one that was sullen, and the calculated detective whose eyes gleamed when they picked up another pattern. The clash between the melancholy and strong-willed. The glacial eyes and the unfaltering, unstoppable object that was L.

“I did think about it.” He paused, looking down at the sheets of his bed, “surely your continued presence in a cell would be the most reasonable course of action. It was a heated debate, I must admit.”

“A debate with?” If he was lucky, only Watari. It was unlikely that L had been able to convince many other well-standing detectives or leaders that his prime Kira suspect did, in fact, possess wings, which made him irrevocably guilty. The one mercy that Light had was that it seemed largely inconceivable, and L was unlikely to have many other people agreeing with his judgement. Not that such a thing would stop L anyway. Through research, Light had learned that in terms of morals, there was a thin line for L, one that edged between ‘justice’ and ‘unethical’.

“Myself. It was hard to decide whether it was better to confine you for my own gain, or for Kira’s.” If only L could lift his face, meet his eyes, maybe Light could make some sense out of his goals, his words, could untangle his intentions. L had become a blur.

“Explain.”

L traced mindless patterns on his knees with the hand that wasn’t attached to Light’s wrist. He had the ability to talk to Light in a way that acted as if he wasn’t there.

“Do I keep an ex-Kira, one that has developed a supernatural form, sleeping an arm’s width away from me at night? One that, for all I know, could still in some way help the current Kira? Or, do I keep you here with me, helping me to find the this Kira instead? Use you to try and track the other down in some way? Too many possibilities.” He stopped for a few seconds, his hands still twitching, “You, Light Yagami, are too many different variables that I have no idea what to do with.”

The words, said in their hushed, low tone, made Light freeze where he stood. The use of his full name. The lack of hatred, bite, the damnation he had been sure would fall off L’s tongue and wrap itself around him.

“I am dedicated to finding Kira, Ryuzaki.”

He shrugged his shoulders minutely- “Perhaps. Maybe its only because you cannot remember being him. With your level of intelligence, I’m sure you could’ve been the first Kira. Which complicates things. Though I see no way that you could currently be helping this Kira, I have no knowledge of the effects of Kira’s abilities. My real enemy here is the lack of information. If only I knew how Kira worked-”

“Which is why you want to keep me here. So that you can use me to find out more about the other Kiras.” Light’s emotions dipped into enmity. A pawn for L to use.

“Just about. You’ll be able to provide me with as much insight as possible.” L tilted his head, black hair rife around him, expression serious, ”If you really are dedicated to finding Kira, that is.”

Light gritted his teeth til he felt the ache in his jaw. The feeling of being pushed around, maneuvered by L, like an object. To be used and placed wherever L needed him to be, in order for him to win. L was the judge, the dealer, the broker that held all the cards, and simply manipulated them in the game around him. Resolute and unmerciful.

But wouldn’t isolation be worse? Wouldn’t being confined, trapped under L’s thumb, boxed in, be the only fate worse than death? L would keep him jailed no matter what, as had been proven. The slight twinge of relief was evident in Light somewhere, beneath the layered anxiety and frustration that came with dealing with L. To know that he would be seeing the sun tomorrow was promise enough.

“I’m unsure of how much I can help. I don’t remember anything, like I’ve told you.” Would that make it seem like he was actually withholding information? Light was sidestepping his own demise. Though, that would be one of the best ways to get inside the investigation, to get close to L, his brain surmised.

His loyalties were with the investigation, and helping L. He was sure.

“To know exactly what you do and do not remember is important enough. We’ll have to corroborate this with Miss Amane, of course. Can Kira select specific memories to sabotage? And does Amane, also, carry wings? Anything can be useful, Light.”

“The manifestation of wings are useful how, exactly?”

L blinked, looking towards the wall, his hands wrapped around his knees. His bones seemed to curl in on each other, a network of sharp protrusions and edges, all interlaced with too-human skin and knitted flesh.

“My thoughts were that it could somehow allow us to identify whether someone had once borne Kira’s powers.” He said it without the usual sincerity and confidence, something which Light had noted was an opening to allow him to discuss, disagree. After spending so much of his daily life with the man, he had learnt some of his tells, though he stayed inscrutable as ever. This tone was where most of their conversations about the investigation came from- L being able to admit hesitancy first, with Light joining to start their debate of whose idea worked the best. Eventually, they would reach a standstill or compromise, their relationship reminiscent of a well-oiled machine, where there finished product would take them one step closer to Kira.

Whilst it had been smothered with anger, irritation and distrust, over the past few weeks they had gained a sense of balance with each other; a daily routine and schedule that had them accustomed to each others presence. The wings had upset this grandly.

“If we find people who have used the powers before, we can see if there’s a pattern or link. It can help us predict who the next Kira is.” It was too easy to slip back into that side of himself that was too like L; his thoughts that were tied to L’s, two creators of the same being.

“Yes, that would be the goal. Though, I find little to explain why you, being the first Kira, would have your powers transferred to someone of the likes of Misa Amane.” L’s nails lined the skin of his lips, paled and chapped. He seemed to be watching the shadows move of the wall. Or he wasn’t looking at all.

“Perhaps Kira’s power is something that moves involuntarily. At random.”

“Yes, perhaps. I find it hard to believe that you would give something like that up, Light.” L’s words fell off his tongue and into the tense air around them like smoke. Light felt something unknown curl and twist within his stomach. Remembering himself, walking into that hotel room, telling L he thought he was Kira. Watari chaining him, pulling on a blindfold that separated him from the world, staring into that single room which would transform him inside and out.

Light chose his next words carefully. He still hated how they sounded.

“It’s hard for humans to resist power, Ryuzaki.” Power was the fuel that vilified human society. Light was simply weak against it.

L was a victim to power too, and Light knew he couldn’t deny it. L, on his pedestal, instructing other people to do his bidding, building towers for himself to separate him from the rest of society. He was just as guilty as Light was, surely.

Though he didn’t have phantom wings. That was something that quite irreversibility, set Light apart from the rest of humanity.

“And Kira is the ultimate seat of power; justice, as he calls himself. I see how that’s alluring.” Would L also have fallen into the trap? Like Light had?

“The society Kira has created allows him to have this power. He has it because most fear otherwise.”

L nodded, his bony shoulders visible as he moved. His legs remained constricted near his chest. He seemed to be thinking, head tilted back til his hair brushed the edge of his back.

“‘Anarchy is the stepping stone to absolute power.’” As if speaking to the ceiling, L’s words melted into the recesses of Light’s brain. Drew something from them.

“Napoleon.” Light said, remembering the quote, “I never knew you were a reader, Ryuzaki.”
Though L and his background was a blurry mirage, Light could hardly see the man being able to stay seated, restful, interested in history.

At this, finally, finally, L turned to look at him. He looked as he always did, in his state of disassembled disarray, both put together and stretched apart, looking at Light truly for the first time in days. They had broken the barrier of unease, tension, the cautious footsteps that followed in the aftermath of the event. There was a stillness that wasn’t necessarily awkward, simply allowing them to be, and Light found himself drinking it in. Not one of accusation, or dread, and L portrayed no signs to show that he was regretting his decision. L looked at him, met his eyes, like he knew exactly what he was doing, had no regrets, could look at Light and see him in his entirety. It was a strange, foreign, atmosphere to be in. It wove itself into the air, threaded between the links in their chain. One Light could get used to, if he allowed himself it.

He noticed L was also smiling.

“Well, Light, get ready read a lot more,” He gestured to the volumes scattered around them like decor, “because I intend to find out exactly what you are. And you’re going to help.”

Chapter Text

'The worst of all deceptions is self deception.'

- Plato

*

Light Yagami knows how to stay calm and steady. His entire life he has been focused on not letting the world break through to him, let itself through the cracks and crevices of his mental shields, to stay resolute in the face of everything else. He likes to think it was a trait he inherited off his father: that, somewhere inside him, he is destined for the same honorable, noble path his father took.

Here, sitting cross-legged and handcuffed to the greatest detective alive, he is rethinking his earlier expectations.

The place was a mess. The books were everywhere, after being tossed around, half-opened, rearranged, grouped and scattered around the room. It had been an interesting and inexplicable 24 hours. Light Yagami had gone from death row prisoner to participant in L’s amateur book club. He had read so many articles, depictions and essays about prehistoric and mythological entities that the lines were starting to blur on the pages, creating one moving mass of letters that he couldn’t decipher.

They had spent most of the first night in a strange trance, where neither of them were willing to speak and break the shatterable atmosphere surrounding them. It wasn’t necessarily awkward; it was a truce, a sign of partnership, one that both wanted to savour. They spent four hours trying to find leads as to what being Kira could possibly be, Light searching through volumes with impatient fingers, trying to concentrate. None of the words were translating in his head; his thoughts were wandering too often, and eventually they had called it a night. They had said their half-hearted ‘goodnight’s to each other, as habit, and they had shared the silence even in their sleep.

They had woken up, however, as completely different people.

As soon as the sun had risen, L, alive and tenacious, had reignited their previous rivalry and squabbling by, apparently accidentally, throwing a book in his direction when searching for something. It had hit him square in the head, knocking him immediately out of his sleep to alarm bells of pain. He had jolted, bleary and confused, chain jangling at his side, reaching to feel the growing bruise on the side of his head.

“What the fuck?” He had been half-coherent.

“Did that hurt?” L’s voice cut through, sounding attentive, and much closer than Light expected him to be. He opened his eyes to the man sitting at the foot of his bed, waiting for Light to react. Light noticed the book that had hit him, now lying on the floor next to him.

“Of course it hurt, you idiot.” Did he think Light was impervious to pain?

“Shame. I doubted pain was the trigger anyway, but I had to check.” Light noted that he didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. L sighed, and moved off Light’s bed to his own, the chain restricting his movement as he walked.

“Excuse me?”

“To summon your wings. There has to be a way to do it, if they’ve appeared twice.” He had said it calmly, barely looking at Light as he spoke. The pain from his head had faded away, but his irritation at L had not. Apparently, grating on each others nerves until one surrendered was still fair game.

But he had been trying to summon his wings. L was actively looking for a method to have those things come out of him again. One part of Light, the rational, methodical side, could see the sense in it; the other was entirely opposed to L having such power over him. The power to manipulate his own body.

“Am I your test subject now? Are you going to dissect me?” Light winced as his hand brushed the newly tender area of his skin where the book had met flesh. He looked up at L, who simply blinked at him, then smiled that unnatural, perverse smile of his.

“You’re one of kind, Light. You’re my primary source of information. Now that you’re awake, you can start on reading that pile of books, that are on your left….”

And such, five hours later, he was watching L sift through a large tome, his ghostly fingers scanning its yellow pages. The book was propped against his knees, back towards the foot of his own bed, bare feet on the carpet of their room. The chain swung randomly as he lifted his hand to turn the page.

“I thought hunting down Kira would be more riveting than this.” Light closed the spine of the book he had spent the past hour searching through, marking various passages and lines that could be of relevance to them. Even though it had been hours, and L had found an inexplicable variety of books and information, there seemed to be little that could lead to an explanation on what Kira or his powers were. L seemed to be focused on Shinigami, as that was something explicitly referenced; Light was starting to doubt that they would find anything at all pertaining to the abilities Kira had.

He had suggested looking through historical events that could signal something like Kira in the past; a large number of unexplainable deaths in one area, serial heart-attack occurrences, looking for a thread that could be tied into the bigger picture. It was a difficult thing to find, and so far he had had no luck.

L turned to him, black hair falling messily around his face- “Was faking Matsuda’s death once not enough action for you, Light? I’m not sure he’s willing to fall off a building again, unfortunately.”

Light ran a finger down the spine of the closed book in his hands, keeping his hands occupied.

“It would be more entertaining for me if you fell off instead, I must admit.” Light couldn’t remember if he always reacted with such a sharp tongue with anybody else he knew. His father had seemed quite surprised at hearing Light mouth off to L when he was in the proximity of hearing their jilted conversation, yet remained fairly silent about it, acknowledging a battle he would lose.

L seemed unbothered, his head hitting the hard back of the bed.

“You would be quite happy to do the pushing, I assume.”

“Just as happy as you were throwing a book at me this morning.” There was a fully forming bruise there, Light had noticed in the mirror, and he was fully inclined to return the favour.

“It was an accident. And necessary, for science.” L pointed out.

“I would like to hear the science behind these illusionary wings, Ryuzaki.” For the Kira investigation, it was easier to leave all science and rational early on. He had joined expecting a classic hunt between the police force and a serial murderer; he was now researching fabled beings and ancient entities, trapped in a room with L.

“Deduction is science, Light. You said that they appeared during the execution stunt, yes? At exactly what point?” He watched as Light pushed a hand through his brown hair, trying to stop the growing tension in his body at the mention of his fake execution.

Light cast his mind back to that event, the haunting memories of glinting metal and his father’s unrecognisable, withdrawn expression. The knowledge that this was the last thing he’d see. Hearing Misa scream and plead next to him, pulling against her restraints. The sight of his father’s still, outstretched hand, gripping a blackened pistol, pointing at his head. Then, wings.

“He had a gun pointed at my head. I saw his finger about to pull the trigger, and they appeared.” Light’s voice was level and concrete.

L nodded, looking away as he often did when he was thinking. Light’s fingers itched to fix the spine of the book that L was currently breaking, probably from the restlessness of being stuck in their shared room all day. The only other living soul he had seen was Watari, who had brought them food and refreshments whenever L requested them. It was better that confinement, at least.

Light thought back to the incident when the wings appeared in front of L.

“Did they appear as soon as we hit the ground? You’re the one who noticed it first, Ryuzaki.” It was still a wonder to Light that he hadn’t felt the things until he had noticed L’s reaction to them.

Briefly, Light thought he noticed L looking conflicted as he drew out memories from a few days prior, the sight that he had seen on the other side of those glassy, stricken eyes.

“No, not immediately,” L paused, staring at the wall for a few seconds, cast back into the vision, “We were on the floor, and you seemed awfully angry at me Light, which I was quite preoccupied by, when I looked up and, well, saw the wings.” He seemed distracted, book laying forgotten in his lap where it was still opened.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

L jarred, eyes dragged away from the blank wall, knocked out of his reverie. He looked at Light expectedly, intrigued.

“You saw them. That’s what surprised me, at first. Why could you see them, when my father and Misa obviously couldn’t?” It was a question that had turned in Light’s mind ever since it had happened. There was no explanation why L wouldn’t fit the pattern, wouldn’t just allow for the wings to stay hallucinations in Light’s head. Because if L could see them, that made them real. Had something changed between the mock execution and the incident during their fight? They still knew too little to understand, and it was so incredibly aggravating, the feeling of being so unaware about his own body. Or whatever was happening to it.

L stared back at him, watching Light tense and exert his frustration.

“We must test that again, if that is the case.” L said.

Exasperated, Light loosened a sigh.

“I can’t just summon them for you to experiment on, Ryuzaki.”

Light couldn’t see how they were going to have the wings appear again. Would they have to try and replicate the events? Whilst he doubted they’d be able to capture the fear of his execution again, Light wondered if he’d get another chance to come to throws with L, damn the consequences. More and more, Light was beginning to feel like the animal L had pinned down to the cutting board, and L was slicing him open to see how he worked.

Being sequestered in a room all day with him and feeling like a specimen under the man’s examining eye had dredged up the familiar feeling of competition between them, even if they were trying to control it.

“Perhaps they’re a defense mechanism. It would explain why you can’t control it. An awfully inconvenient one.”

Light twitched, stewing in the uncertainty of the situation. They were so close to the latest Kira, and yet so far from understanding anything at all. They were trying to finish the puzzle without having any of the pieces, Light thought.

“An instinctual, reflex response to a threat.” L continued, nodding.

Light raised his eyebrows, thinking over the events that had happened leading up to his fight with L. Perhaps he couldn’t control the way his body reacted during an adrenaline fuelled fight, but subconsciously recognising the bony, gaunt man beside him as a threat was both laughable and humiliating.

“You’re making me sound like an animal.”

“I’m not sure we can exactly describe that as human, Light.”

He grimaced at the blunt wording, but kept the displeasure off his face. He had grown to realise that L, whilst impassive and curt, wasn’t looking to initiate a warring match with Light.. L had said he was going to keep Light beside him. Light was committed to keeping it that way, and was quite willing to create some sort of camaraderie with L, for his own sake. He doubted L would make his decisions off of emotions- emotions towards Light, no less- but if he could spend whatever time he had in general accord with the other, it would work in both their favours. It was just infuriatingly difficult to hold his tongue.

“I’m as human as you are.” Was all he said, declaring it as fact more than opinion. He tried to miss the eye roll that L gave in the corner of his vision, and failed.

L looked at him incredulously- “Of course, Light-kun.”

He always resorted back to ‘Light-kun’ when he was mocking him. Jeering at him, taunting him in some way, layering his voice with that detectable trace of sarcasm that worked best on Light. L always tacked on the extra formality as a mockery; an extra hint that their conversation was a farce.

“I’m hardly one of these mythological beasts that you’re having me read about.” Scorned, Light flipped open one of the large books beside him on the floor. He gestured to the large images of the creatures; nonsensical beings of fabrication that Light had quite pointedly scoffed at. Whilst the line was decidedly blurred, Light hadn’t become something beast-like. He still possessed his intellect, his thought- it was his body that was betraying him, allowing itself to be broken open and messed with. His brain, his memory, had been tampered with, but that wouldn’t hinder him now. He vowed redemption for himself, and for what Kira had put him through.

L cast a sideways glance at the images Light had pointed to. He shrugged, wrapping his arms around his legs on the floor as he did so. The chain was wrapped around his left wrist.

Did L really see him as something more than human?

Less?

“You were Kira once, Light. Absolute power is as inhuman as it gets.”

The words fell of L’s tongue heavily, reminiscent of a sentencing. The clang of bars and darkness of blindfolds. Cars and bullet cases.

Light swallowed. He closed the book with a snap, blocking out the images of supernatural demons and creations. Anything to protect himself from what L was spelling out to be the truth. He let out the tension in his shoulders.

“Uncharacteristically philosophical of you, Ryuzaki.”

L twitched, eyes widening and mouth pulling into a small smile.

“I’m just as human as you are, Light-kun.”

*

Fortunately for Light, even L admits that they cannot spend all hours of the day swept into their shared room, pouring over texts and passages. At around midday, Watari comes to collect them and ushers them out, their chain swerving as they grow accustomed to walking around with it holding them together. Like this, they shift from their side hobby, (as L likes to call it, Light prefers literature club), to their main pejorative; pinning down the current Kira. Yotsuba had been a good start for the both of them. Light enjoyed this for the sole reason that it felt like he was actually achieving something, talking about what the best next move would be to catch Kira.

Their conversation or general approach to one another doesn’t change much when they join the rest of the task force in the main room. If something, Matsuda seems to be glad that they have returned to their old ways, the tension that had previously hindered them dissipated.

Light isn’t sure how to feel anymore. Their dynamic, whilst always twisted and flawed, had taken on a new light after the incident. The wings- the knowledge that L was using him- were an ugly thought that laid heavy and thick on his mind, reigniting the animosity. At the same time, he couldn’t blame L. It was him, after all, who had appeared with two large black wings either side of him. It was also him who was trying to desperately convince himself that they hadn’t changed anything.

Light had known that he was a different person now. Ever since he had stepped foot into and out of that cell. He hadn’t been able to place it, but he had been reshuffled, and this time the pieces weren’t quite fitting into place. It was leaving him confused, unstable, and weaker than he had ever perceived himself.

Did the person he was before ever feel like this? The unwavering uncertainty of where to go next, where it was safe to place his foot before the entire world came crashing down upon him. He envied, hated, and feared that other person he couldn’t remember. Kira had torn strips of his humanity away from him like rags; without his memories, he was a blind man searching for them, wanting to stitch them back together.

But he had kept his intellect. He was still useful. He was not going to distrust his own thought process, his own deductions. L needed him, the force needed him.

Light is set in determination. He calls Namikawa, keeping his voice steady and exact, because even if Kira has placed his bloody hands in his life, he was still Japan’s top honor student, and was promised for great things.

L, sedately, calm, tells him that perhaps one day, he could be the successor to the title of L. It’s an empty promise, words L have crafted to make him feel a certain way, but even so, they were exactly what Light had wanted to hear.

*

Light sat with his arms crossed, the handcuff digging into the sleeve of his arm, legs crossed over each other. They were back in Misa’s room, as they had been five days prior, where Light and L had fought and the world had changed on its axis. L had his brow furrowed, eyes raking over Misa Amane, who didn’t looked pleased at L’s return.

Misa hadn’t even looked that pleased to see Light again. She had, of course, thrown her arms around him when he had entered, exclaiming in greeting, but instead of being annoyed as he usually was, all Light had noticed was the feeling of Misa’s bones digging into him as she pressed against him. He had, to Misa’s delight, wrapped his arms around her waist in return; and had been alarmed to find that she was much smaller than he remembered her. Whilst always slim, Misa had felt cold to the touch- as if all he was hugging was a bundle of bones interconnected by string.

Sitting across from her, it was a concerning sight. Whilst not visibly gaunt, and still dressed in her usual attire, the change in her body weight was noticeable and worrying. L bit into his thumb next to him, undoubtedly recognising the same thing Light had just a few seconds before.

“Ryuzaki, I hope you’re not planning to fight her like you did me.” Light had the feeling that a strong breeze could knock Misa down.

Despite the changes to her physique, the comment had its intended effect. Misa’s eyes glowered instantly, shifting to L, who stared back at her blankly.

“Could you stop provoking Light already?” She said, crossing her arms in a mimicry of Light. Her hair hung loose and long near her shoulders.

“The situation between us has been resolved, Miss Amane.” L spoke decidedly, watching as Misa’s facial expressions changed from angered to resolute.

“We’re here to ask you a few more questions concerning the Kira case.” At the recognition of L’s words, Misa returned back to annoyance.

Him and L had discussed how to approach this, with little success. L was determined to pinpoint whether Misa was experiencing similar side effects as Light was. She had obviously also undergone some sort of memory loss close to Light’s, and L was committed to naming her the Second Kira. Therefore, it was plausible to assume that Misa Amane would also, in some way, experience the phantom hallucinations of wings, just like Light did.

The question was, however, how to ask her it.

“Wasn’t the 50 day long interrogation long enough for you, pervert?”

In this, Light had to agree that Misa had a point. He bit his tongue as L barely reacted, blinking slowly at her.

Light wasn’t a good boyfriend, by all means. He doubted he would ever feel anything romantically for the woman- and she wasn’t exactly his first choice in platonic company either. Even so, watching her deteriorate after their confinement made him pity her. She had been dragged into this just like he had, and dealing with the consequences.
“We have a new line of inquiry.” L said, bluntly ignoring Misa’s previous insult.

“You can probably help us, Misa. You just need to be honest.” Light had known he would have to take the reigns from L as soon as possible. The man had no tact for things like this.

At his sugary, mellow voice, Misa slowly relaxed from her standoff with L. She uncrossed her arms, reaching a hand to mess with the strands of her blonde hair. Even the bones in her fingers were more prominent, going from dainty to undernourished. The sharp pinpricks of pity began anew, rising from the bottom of his stomach as he looked at her.

“What is it?” She asked, looking at Light with large, attentive eyes.

Light took a side glance at L, who’s thumb was brushing his lips, and in response L simply shrugged.

“Have you experienced anything unusual since you lost your memory?” Best to ease her into it, Light gathered. He doubted anyone would take well to the immediate question ‘are you hallucinating wings?’. Misa’s eyes narrowed, looking between the two of them.

“What do you mean?” She seemed uneasy, waiting for Light to clarify more before she answered. Light calmed himself, asserting his posture in a way to make himself seem more inviting, less threatening. Adapting his stance, voice and words to appease others was an art he had learned during much of his youth. He had donned the persona as a calm, concentrated and focused student, dedicated and loyal to his country and family. A person born for the path of justice. He had grown into changing himself to fit his expectations, to make others happy. He knew the approach he needed to take to satisfy Misa, become trustworthy enough to placate her, because it was all too easy for him to do so.

“Odd dreams, for instance.” His mouth dried at the memory of his own nightmare. “Or anything of the like.”

Misa was silent for a few seconds. She looked briefly surprised.

“I’ve had a few…. strange dreams. Nothing about being Kira though, if that’s what you’re expecting.” Her lips were pursed, the bright pink showing that she was still stable enough to uphold her own values of always looking her best. She was still conventionally attractive, despite the less than favourable demeanor.

L nodded. Undoubtedly, L was also correlating that with Light’s experience during that night, when he had woken up ragged and burning. It was still a moment Light was trying to live down, working it into the back of his mind and keeping it there for as long as possible. He hadn’t thought it had meant much, at the time; but now that L was examining him, no doubt every scrap of information would be used against him in the end.

“Could you tell me what the dreams were about?”

She physically recoiled, moving back from Light and becoming further withdrawn.

“Why is that important?” Misa looked afflicted, sounding affronted at the question. Light hadn’t expected her to have such strong barriers; he couldn’t remember if she had actually been like this before. Misa was getting defensive, which meant Light had touched upon something.

“It very much is, Misa. We need to know how Kira is affecting your mental state at present.” A carefully said, believable line.

“Being stuck in this building is affecting my mental state, Light, not Kira.” She scoffed. “When can I go back to my house?”

“Not for the foreseeable future, Miss Amane. I need you under surveillance.” L’s input probably wasn’t helpful in this current situation. L sat awkwardly at the edge of his seat, impassively watching Misa react and scowl at the situation.

“In a general sense, Misa, what do you dream about?” Light pressed, locking his eyes with hers. She froze and went silent for a few seconds, before recoiling back into her seat, looking reluctant.

“Skeletons.”

Both Light and L stayed silent, waiting for Misa to continue. She didn’t. Her face was blotchy, lips trembling, face showing an expression of shame and unease. She looked downtrodden, a slither of the usually bubbly personality she bore. Light was used to her speaking in long, enthusiastic spiels, and not the blunt, one word answer she had given.

Skeletons?

“And?” Light urged, trying to coax honesty out of her. To have her admit to those nightmares in a way Light never would. The air in the room seemed cold, sullen, as he waited for her to speak. L listened intently beside him.

“Skeletons!” She cried suddenly, eyes spilling tears, creating blackened streams of makeup down her cheeks. The sobs rattled in the room, Misa bundled in on herself, face barely visible. Her weeping filled the space around them, despondent and pitiful.

L’s mouth was slightly open, looking surprised at the immediate outburst of emotion from Misa. Light reached over to place a comforting hand on her back, attempting to sooth her, L shuffling over so that the chain didn’t pull on him.

“Skeletons, Light! Everywhere! I’m sick of it!” The words were barely distinguishable from her loud sobs, and she snivelled and wept into Light’s shoulder, her tears staining his neatly pressed shirt. The sound made the needles of pity appear again, pushing into his skin as she leaned against him in support, Light hesitantly accepting it.

“It’s okay, Misa.” He said, hoping to bring the woman some comfort and make her consolable. She sniffed, briefly quieting, trying to rein in her emotions. Her face was puffy, eyes smeared with tears and mascara, hair crumpled and in disarray.

After a few moments, she seemed to settle, reaching over to grab a tissue and wipe her eyes. She was still shaking, Light noticed, and was reluctant to move away from her. His presence by her side seemed to help her somewhat, and she ignored L’s unmoving form a distance from them, peering at her curiously.

“Is it only affecting your dreams? Nothing in real life, no hallucinations or such?” Light said to her, keeping his voice sympathetic. Still searching. Misa shook her head, sullen and upset, eyes glazed over and forlorn.

“Any sighting of wings, Miss Amane?” L adds, and Misa gathers a piece her usual irritated state around him, but still shakes her head.

“Why? Is that important?” Her voice is cracked and bearing the dregs of her crying. Light moves his hand, the one not currently chaining him to L, and places it over Misa’s. Immediately grateful, her eyes widen at the contact, and she takes Light’s hand into hers instantly, clutching at him.

Her skin is colder under his touch, the cold bones of her fingers icy under his, brittle and emaciated. He hates the feeling.

L shifts, the chain rattling between them.

“I can have Watari get you some medication for your dreams, Miss Amane.” L uncurls himself from his usual crumpled position on the sofa, his posture remaining slouched and unguarded.

“Thank you.” Misa utters, her grip on Light’s hand becoming almost painful. Her nails dig into him, the black nail polish chipped and cracked in an assortment of places. She clings onto him like a vice.

“You have been helpful.” L says, and his face displays non of the concerned, piteous look that Light had been giving her. He looked on blankly, sending a glance to Light at Misa’s side. Obviously wanting to leave Misa and the depressive aftershocks of her crying behind.

Which was strange for L. If he wanted to leave, or move to another room, he would usually stand up and do it without question. The chain was more of Light’s problem, because L had little concern for whatever Light was doing, or holding, when he decided to yank on the chain and walk somewhere else. It wasn’t like him to wait and look at Light, to see if he was willing to leave.

“Misa,” Light said, looking down at her, “tell me if you experience anything like that. Hallucinations, vivid dreams, wings, like Ryuzaki said.”

Her brows furrowed at the mention of wings again, but she nods mutely, her grip finally loosening on Light’s hand. Her nails have left crescent moon indents into his skin like minute scars. The pressure of her fingers pressed against his had made his hand red.

He stood up, away from her, chain ringing as L did the same. The atmosphere was heavy, laden with Misa’s anguish. Whilst always more dramatic than most, Light had no doubt that what Misa was experiencing was valid, and greatly fear inducing for her. It just wasn’t directly similar to Light. Skeletons? Whilst Light had wings? If Kira had chosen these images for the each of them, Light didn’t have the faintest idea as to why.

Him and L shuffled out of the room silently. As they closed the door, leaving Misa snivelling and putting herself back together, Light glanced back at her on the sofa. Misa Amane was slowly being drained away, right before their very eyes.

The needles pounced on him as soon as he shut the door.

*

The evening is descending upon them, the sinking sun melting over the horizon of buildings, Tokyo’s towers surrounding them like statues. Light looks downwards, watching the hordes of people move around beneath, many dressed thinly for the summer evening weather. The sky was a swash of orange and the ascending dim night, stars blinking into existence.

The room is bathed in the smoldering darkness. His room, L’s room, their room. His bed on one side is thankfully free of the piles of books that litter the rest of the space, L’s bed especially. Light is convinced that the man has started to sleep with the volumes still laying beside him in his bed. He would assert this assumption, if not for L waking much earlier than he does every morning. He wakes to the sound of pages turning, paper sliding past paper, the creaks of book spines and the chain rustling.

It had been a full week since him and L had called their unsteady truce in order to delve deeper into Kira’s existence. It had been six hours since their talk with Misa. The conversation had not served in rectifying his sombre thoughts, and the mood had weighed over him the entire day. L had trailed alongside him, silent, but largely unchanged. They had strong leads on Yotsuba, but Light found his concentration straying, slipping away from his loose grasp. His mind provided images for him; trapped, cornered wings, the sight of the sun, flesh melting of bone.

He had even looked forward to leaving the company of the rest of the force, returning back into the small space that was becoming more of a disorganised library than bedroom. The evening hung on him like a weighed cloud.

L, who was sitting with his knees drawn to his chest on the edge of his bed, rattled the chain at Light. The slow hum of L’s laptop illuminated a small area around his feet.

“Misa doesn’t have wings.” Light says. He has an urge to open the window, feel the air pushing past him again, truly breathe once more. He didn’t like sharing such a cluttered space.

“No, it appears she doesn’t.”

Light turns towards him, away from the sight of the city and sky. L looks at him, unfazed. L is unshakeable, a man that the world cannot push against and win. L could stand before the sun and walk away unscathed.

L wouldn’t have bent to the will of Kira. Wouldn’t be dragged down by any phantom mirage.

Light loosens a breath from the tightness of his lungs. He walks closer to L steadily, pulls up a chair and sits opposite him. L doesn’t react, simply places his hands on the denim fabric of his knees, watching as Light settles himself in his vicinity. Light leans back into the chair, but he feels tense, alert, and he knows he won’t be able to sleep well tonight. His mind is empty, but pulsing, and emotions are crawling in his stomach. He cannot pinpoint them. He pushes a hand through his hair.

L shuffles where he’s sat. He pulls out a singular sheet of paper from one of the books around him, holding it oddly before him with his thumb and index finger. The writing, though Light can’t see it close enough to read it, consists of black, sharp letters, printed out.

“Kira killed six people today, Light.”

The room around them feels darker, the last dregs of sunlight escaping it.

“Mostly business rivals to the Yotsuba group. Some were the result of personal grievances, most likely.” Light had looked through them this morning, looking for people who Yotsuba would’ve wanted dead. Rich, mostly men, corporate rulers with power.

This Kira had killed them for monetary gain. For a materialistic fantasy that held no weight. The other Kira at least had integrity.

L nods in response, and turns the sheet of paper over in his hands. Light realises the text on it, whilst bold, is small. The words are written out in a long list, covering both sides in a multitude of columns.

“This is a list of criminals killed within the first few months of Kira’s existence. I believe you killed these people, Light.”

Under the flickering blue light on his laptop, and the rising moon outside the window, L begins to read.

“Kurou Otoharada. Toyama Osamu. Hirata Sho. Devon Malliker. Nikifor Belov. Muranaka Keiko…”

Light reeled, head spinning. The names echoed in the room, in his head, reverberating in his skull.

“Why are you-” He rasped, sitting up in his chair, the words continuing to pour from L’s mouth into the dead space around them.

“Fuijoka Chie. Qiao Wen. Ma Lifen. Lorita Anzures. Mark Thornfield….”
The names spilled themselves into Light, hoarding space inside his mind, repeating themselves over and over continuously. L constantly added more, contributing to the rising tide threatening to consume him. Names of the people he had killed. The people that he had reigned over, consigned to death, as Kira. People he had taken from families, people he had torn from life, hearts he had ripped from chests.

“Imada Akira. Murayama Ryuu. Katarina Martell. Kazimir Alexeev…”

The churning was vengeful, malicious, eating away at his insides. Not waves of water, not waves reminiscent of the sea; no, these were waves of acid, burning hot and melting off the flesh on his skin. The names of those he had murdered. He couldn’t remember it. But there was no doubt that those people, the words currently being uttered past L’s lips, had died at his hand. Sins that pulled and gnawed at him, and he couldn’t remember them.

“Tanaka Katsumi. Yoshida Arata. Nur Bozkurt. Zhong Weimin…”

What is this?

This is guilt.

He felt it, unyielding, ripping strips off of him, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to the rolling acid inside. Raging, shameful guilt. He felt nauseous, copper filling his mouth, bloodying his tongue.

“Jacob Holland. Magda Lewandowska. Richard Crawford. Okira Sadao….”

Why couldn’t he remember it? He wanted to remember it. He wanted to know what he had been as Kira. Wanted to know what he had felt, as he had killed. Killed so easily, so repeatedly, struck down hundreds through names and faces alone. Light wanted to own those memories, see what he had become then. Maybe then he could understand why.

“Seta Tomiko. Yu Yuan. Kiran Meda. John Dolton….”

The disgrace raked blood-dipped talons against his ribcage. He felt sick, shamed. Unhuman.

L stopped talking. The air stilled, and the room stopped spinning. The building nausea halted within him at once, disappearing. His hands gripped the arm rests, grounding him back to reality. He didn’t feel the burning anymore. The guilt didn’t infiltrate him, fight for space inside his head. His thoughts rearranged themselves. The chanting of people stopped.

The weight, however, descended. A burden on his spine, laying on his bones.

The wings were there. Splayed out behind him, long primaries pushing at the wall, brushing against furniture. Plumes spilled out from his back, large curtains of black and midnight ash pouring from the cavity that had formed, the split that the wings had emerged from. Swaths of onyx, dipping to touch the floor as Light shook, jerking his head to look at them. He still tasted blood.

Emptiness replaced the previous calamity. Too little, and too much. All at once.

“I… that worked.”

Light’s head lurched upwards, at L, whose face was etched in awe. His eyes were wide, similar to the first time he had seen the wings, but this time didn’t look frozen to the core. L could form words, slow, almost disbelieving. Lilting, soft. He had dropped the piece of paper, the bold words staring back at him from their place on L’s bed.

Light trembled. The wings were heavy, pushing down upon him. But… his emotions had quietened. He had felt guilt, pity, remorse, anger; and now, hardly anything. The pain of his actions didn’t exist. The dulled weight of the wings had replaced it.

“Ryuzaki.” The word grated at the back of his throat.

“Light.” Was the only response. L moved, standing to walk nearer towards Light, moving hesitantly. Light met his eyes. L looked unsteady, off balance; but amazed, almost mezmerised. Gleaming eyes, staring back into his.

The moon beamed down upon the scene. Light, shaking in the chair, black wings pulled from the corner of his soul, stretching out in the room. Small feathers falling down onto the carpet like flecks of ash. L, standing beside him, connected to Light via the long chain that entwined them both to each other.

“I can feel them.” Light spoke more to himself than for L. He could feel the things, the nerve endings, the bones that cracked and muscles that contracted as the wings expanded. He could feel the secondaries brushing the floor, the wingtips pushing at the room’s wall. The overbearing heaviness of the creations.

If possible, L looked more taken aback. But he didn’t move, remained rooted at Light’s side, as if unsure as what to do. Light looked up at him, breathing shakily. He could bear this. He could bear physical pain.

“They feel… real.”

L’s mouth clicked shut where it had previously been left open in surprise.

A moment of empty, hallowed silence. Then, L;

“Can you move them, Light?”

Light swallowed, trying to dispel the taste of metal from his mouth, coating his tongue. Move them. As if they were a natural part of his body, something he had been born with. The wings twitched uncomfortably, drooping towards the floor as Light barely tried to keep them up. Some feathers fluttered as they fell. He didn’t know how to even begin, couldn’t fathom how he could obtain power over the things that had grown from him.

But before, they had felt like a separate entity, distant and corporeal, a ghost of what they were now. Here, they were heavy, real, feeling. Attached to him physically and emotionally. They were just a new limb he could learn to control.

L took a few steps back, nearing the edge of the chain’s tether. Light took a deep breath inwards, then attempted to pull the wings back inward, towards himself.

It barely worked. His back muscles screamed as he tried to pull the wings in, lifting them slightly, feathers ruffling and overlapping each other. Again, he attempted to raise them, but the burden wouldn’t let up. Light shook with exertion. He could shift them minutely in an effort to force them back in entirely, but instead they pushed downwards onto his spine. His back and core wasn’t strong enough to hold them entirely, and as a result they lay limply, outstretched behind him.

“They’re too heavy.” He said through gritted teeth. His heart was quickening again, the muscles crying out in relief as Light finally gave up trying to raise the things. He gave up trying to hide how exposed he felt, the facade that he wasn’t bothered, that he could make it through without being effected. The eternal walls that he had built up around himself were exhausting to hold, and Light had been broken inwards. Shown vulnerability. Bared himself, not only to L, who he barely recognised as being in the room, but to himself.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, Light’s breath ringing in the room. The light of the moon covered them in a ethereal cloud. The wings randomly trembled, Light attempting to move them if he could. He was simply too weak to bare the weight.

That’s when L stepped in, closer towards him, directly in the path of the moon’s shadow casting its glow.

“Can I touch them?” L’s voice was unnaturally delicate, something he had never heard from him before. Smooth, lax, lenient. Asking.

The wings shifted, as if in response. Some wingtips fell across books as they moved, furniture serving as obstacles in its path.

“Why?” Light asked in surprise, his voice sounding rough. It was bad enough that L was seeing this, watching him; and he wanted to touch them-

“Can I, Light?” L was quiet, speaking at almost a whisper, the light from the moon pouring onto his face, into his dark eyes. Light recognised astonishment in that gaze; pure, unadulterated awe, absorbing in the sight of the wings. Amazed. Not a hint of looking sickened, like Light was.

Maybe if L had flinched, or grimaced, or recoiled, Light would have said no. Would have done something, anything, to get L to leave, including ripping free of the chain. Wouldn’t have been able to bear L looking at him like the creature Light saw himself to be, with fear and spite and hatred.

But L hadn’t. L, whilst slightly unsteady, had remained resolute, not the lost half-man that Light had become. L hadn’t placed him back in the jail cell, and didn’t look like he was going to now, even after seeing the wings for the second time. Was this mercy? Was this L acting compassionate?

No. This was L truly intrigued, in wonder. Reverence was written in his features, on his skin, in the light of the moon.

Light wonders since when he was so sure he could read L. He wonders if L lets him.

So Light nods tersely. His neck is sore, and even the slight movement sends skitters of pain down his spinal cord, to the contused flesh of the erupting wings. His head is bowed in a mockery of defeat.

L steps forward, the chain wrinkling as he moves, trailing after him along the floor. With no hesitance, he sidesteps the lumbering wings, bare feet shuffling past the discarded black feathers on the carpet. He moves behind Light, away from his line of sight, blocking out the rays of the moon from the open window. He footsteps are light, as if L was hardly existent, a shadow stood behind him.

Tired, drained, Light leans forward in his chair until his elbows are resting on his knees. His hair falls into his face, and some part of him has to make a conscious effort not to throw up at the feeling of the wings dragging him down. He could hardly move. When would they disappear? Before, they had folded back inwards at varying times; the first, in the car, it had taken all of 10 minutes before they disappeared before his eyes. The second, a few moments. When could he finally be rid of them?

L moves in utter silence. Light doesn’t know what to say.

L places a hand on his shoulder. It is unforceful, not gripping him at all. His fingers stretch across his collarbone, down to the nape. Nails that scrape down the skin of his shoulder, but they don’t hurt, only add to the paradox of pain and lit nerves and frazzled senses. L trails his fingertips to the start of his spine, where in Light’s hunched over form, the bones are visible.

Mutely, in disbelief, L traces fingertips over the first ridge in his spine. Moves downwards, to the next few knobs that are evident under Light’s skin, and creates paths over those as well, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Moving slowly, sedately, L paints a stream down Light’s vertebrae, his fingertips in the rivulets and dips of his bones, as if seeking more. Until he reaches the centre of his spine, the gaping hole within him and which was him. The abyss that the wings spilled from, the gap in his backbone where they appeared and expanded.

L brushed a thumb down the side of the eclipse. The entire left wing suddenly pulsed in a short flurry, multiple feathers falling out, before relaxing as L removed his touch immediately.

“Did you..”

“Feel that? Yes.”

L resumes his wandering search with the palm of his hand. Light sits completely still, waiting for one of the wings to jerk involuntarily again. L’s touch is faint on his skin, but it sends shivers done him nonetheless. L’s long fingers skim over a feather that is closest to the breach in his back, one of the smaller scapulars that is barely developed. His hand brushes it, feeling the silky texture of the feather. They don’t speak, but communicate in soft presses and fingertips that graze plumes.

Light can barely recognise what he’s doing. He counts the seconds and his breaths, prays and pleads to whichever god still exists.

L strays further outwards, towards the larger expanse of the wings, the inky sea of reflective feathers and alive muscles, connected with a network of bone. Light wishes he could see L, see whatever expression (or lack of) the man had. The blistering, intrinsic gaze that looked upon Light in fascination.

“Are you in pain?” L asks, retracting his hand suddenly. The cautious touch immediately vanishes from the quivering coverts, and Light feels it go.

“No.”

“Even when I touch them?”

“The wings themselves don’t hurt.” He admitted, “But my muscles strain to hold them up.” He ignored the other part of the question, or rather refused it- in pain mentally?

L made a sound in understanding. He would often forgo words when he was invested or focusing on something, as if he was only capable of using his brain for one thing at a time.

After a moments hesitance, L returns to his ministrations, and Light takes in a deep breath. This was necessary, for L, for science, for the investigation. Despite that, the feeling of L touching the foreign limb that were the wings was both contorted and acceptable. The image of somebody else being able to physically examine the anomalies was one he hated; at the same time, L’s fingertips were gentle and light, like a barely flowing breeze, moving from the tips of one covert to the next.

“I didn’t get to see them properly, before.” L muttered, and Light shook as his hand passed by the smaller coverts and tertiaries, closer to the grown, larger secondaries. The black feathers were long, spindly, and seemed to be able to feel more than the earlier feathers. They bled out into the primaries, the main, imperial plumes that made up most of the wing.

L briefly scraped a finger over the first secondary. Light twitched, feeling the nerves alight down his spine, a strange domino effect, its origin from an area he could hardly recognise. It was as if his body had refitted, adapted to the intruders- intwined itself with the wings, so that they were part of him entirely. He focused on keeping his breathing steady, not allowing the wings to flare out again randomly. Kept his head down, allowed L to continue.

“They were gone too quickly for me to truly comprehend them.” His low voice mixed with the dim lighting of the room. The wings blended and camouflaged against it.

“They’re captivating.” L was hushed, a low whisper that could only exist under the gaze of the moon and his hand in sable feathers.

Light’s mouth dried. He gripped his knee with his hands, pushing his fingers into the fabric of his jeans.

“They’re vile, Ryuzaki.”

L finally reached the tip of the wing, fingers splayed out amongst the vast primaries, which fluttered at his touch. The press sent bolts of feeling down the length of the wings, connecting at Light’s spine, the network of nerves and senses overwhelming him. L traced the length of a large primary feather, soaking into the soft, satin texture. It was hard to imagine them as heavy; the feathers themselves felt weightless, like air.

“I think they’re quite amazing, Light.”

“Because they’re your best evidence.” Light scoffed, trying to push through the weakness.

L’s hand wandered to the sleek tips of the feathers, brushing against the sharp spines, feeling the intricacies of the web.

“I doubt I could use these as evidence in a court of law.” L said.

Light’s throat tightened around the next words; “You wouldn’t need one.”

L hummed in response, in his distinct, overt way of not agreeing verbally, despite the answer being evidently clear.

L spoke anyway.

“I must, but I don’t particularly want to kill you.”

“Why?”

“You’re too fascinating. It would be a waste.”

“Me or the wings?”

“One and the same.”

At that moment, the wings suddenly flared, and L’s hand dropped from them immediately, instinctively taking several steps back in caution. The things moved, shuddered, and folded in on themselves, curled into the small space in the void in Light’s back, and disappeared. Growing skin knitted itself over the wound, the black fading from view. They were gone.

As soon as the weight lifted off his back, air rushed into Light’s lungs, filling the space that was occupied by the wings. He took large, deep breaths, calming himself from the experience. The panic-induced dream. It hardly felt real.

They took a few moments silence, Light suppressing the urge to shout, do something frightfully stupid. The trembles eventually retreated, his hands returning to their natural steady poise. Light leaned back in his chair, grateful at the contact of his back on solid material, rather than two enveloping wings.

The moon continued to beam down on them, soaking them both in a haze. Without the wings, however, they seemed to be able to speak through it again.

L cleared his throat. Light turned to look at him, and L moved away from Light’s back slowly. He still seemed to be in a state of reverence, and Light couldn’t find it within himself to be proud of that fact.

L circles him, comes back around to sit on the bed and face Light. Curiously, he doesn’t resume his normal crouching position as he usually does.

“Thank you, Light.”

Light starts with mild confusion. He is absolutely drained, exhausted, physically and mentally. The hollow feeling inside him had seeped away. Now, instead of uncomfort and horror, he just wanted to sleep. Sleep away the whole evening, purge it from his mind, and wake up without its memory.

Maybe Kira had done him a favour.

So Light just nods. Nods, and averts L’s eyes. Cannot look at the man who stared back into him so willingly, and seen such vulnerability. He wanted to rid these memories from L’s mind too; make him forget the sight of Light so weak as to quiver under his touch.

“You should rest.” L adds, himself looking slightly dazed. But he stands, and waits for Light to follow (which for some reason, means something to Light) and, staggering, Light does the same. His knees are weak as he moves, and when he gets up blood rushes to head, making him dizzy. He is weary, depleted.

They walk in tandem with the chain, and usually, Light would head to the bathroom before sleeping. Tonight, he cannot. His limbs refuse to take him far, and the thought of seeing himself in the mirror is enough to have him turn and collapse onto his bed covers.

L makes a sound in surprise, and quickly moves to Light’s side as if he were about to fall onto the floor. The chain clatters against itself. Light lays on his back, relishing the feeling of his back unobstructed, and watches the light of the moon create lines on the ceiling.

Somewhere, beneath my skin, there are wings, he says to himself, and they are a part of me. And Kira. They signify every sin he and I have ever committed. They are me, and I am them.

His eyes close, the eternal darkness a mercy and a warm welcome. His whole body is limp, completely used up, every part of himself whittled down to its core.

He slips into that heavenly oblivion.

*

“I’m afraid Light isn’t feeling very well, Mr. Yagami. Yes, he is fine. He is well taken care of, I assure you. Please do continue without us for the time being. Yes. Goodbye.”

*

“I’m afraid, Mr Yagami, that your son is still indisposed. No, he is asleep. Watari reckons it is some sort of virus. We’d better not leave the room so it does not spread to the others. Yes, indeed. Well then, goodbye Mr. Yagami.”

*

“Mr Yagami, please reassure your wife that there is nothing to be worried about. Your son simply needs a day or two to recover. Please continue working without us. The advancement of this case is imperative.”

*

“Light. You should wake up before they reckon you’re dead.”

*

“Light. Please do wake up now.”

*

When it happens, he thinks he’s dreaming. The rays of the sun are everywhere, blinding him, so immediately he thinks he’s returned to the nightmare, the image of flying and falling and grasping the sun.

But he’s not dreaming. His eyes open, and the sunlight pours in, awakening him instantly. It warms the skin of his face, the light spilling in through the open window.

He turns his head towards it.

He hears a sharp movement, and there a strong pull on the chain, involuntarily moving his wrist as L jerks. Light watches as the man gets up, strides towards him, black pools staring into his own.

“Welcome to the land of the living, Light.”

“How long?” His throat is dry, and his voice demonstrates this.
L hums, placing his hands in his jean pockets. “29 hours, give or take.”

Light blanks, taking in the knowledge that he had slept over an entire day. His back aches in random places, but his body feels largely rested.

“I couldn’t seem to wake you.” L adds, watching as Light blinks repeatedly to adjust to the lighting. Slowly, he sits up, and realises he’s still in his regular clothes, and had slept nearly 30 hours in them. His mouth feels like dry sandpaper, and his throat is rough.

L shifts from foot to foot. He looks strangely welcoming. The room around them is in no better state than it was the last time he saw it, save for the glass of water standing on his bedside table. L is dressed in his natural state of disarray, standing barefoot in front of him.

Light takes this in. He remembers every detail of what had happened; could play it out step by step if he had to, even if he wishes he couldn’t.

“Ryuzaki. L.”

L halts, and his expression melts from his thinly veiled joviality to his impassive blank slate.

“How did you know that would trigger them?”

L stares, and sits down at the edge of his bed, facing Light with a complex look on his face. Light attempts to read the answers off him before they come out of his mouth.

“I concluded that the wings couldn’t be due to a physical threat as such. We have physically fought before and no wings have appeared, which means the wings are an exception, not the rule. The only other presiding factor I could rely on was your emotional state. I decided to test it.” L paused, feet fidgeting on the floor.

“Though I had no guarantee that that method would work. Perhaps the altercation with Miss Amane worsened it. Or you, in this instance. Either way, I can conclude that the wings appear in times of distress or more likely, strong emotion.” He ended, finally.

Light listened silently. His body tensed hearing it, and a part of him still refused to accept it as truth. Didn’t want to acknowledge that his body now played by different rules, and had become something foreign to him.

But what L said made perfect sense. It lined up with Light’s emotional state in each of the instances; fear, anger, and guilt. The swirling, churning feeling before the wings had erupted and… swept everything away. Taken those feelings from him, for better or for worse. L was right, Light admitted to himself.

He nodded, and the day began anew.

*

It’s not perfect. Him and L, with their tendency to pull at each others loose threads and cut away at the seams. So they continue to collide, sparks fly, and it creates bruises and sharp jabs and memories. Some, Light finds he is quite fond of; throwing a book back at L’s forehead, for example, is one he will treasure. Others, he would prefer to discard and rip from his head entirely.

They do manage to fall in tandem. The books serve their purpose in crafting barriers but also removing them. They find a topic they can always fall back on if things go awry; Kira, the investigation, their goal. Perhaps one of the most important things they share is the joint determination to capture the elusive thing, it, person. L wants to know its secrets, find joy in its hidden knowledge and messages, declare victory over a tyrant and a despot.

Light wants to take things from Kira, the things that are rightfully his. He wants his memories back, the peace of his mind back. He wants nights where he doesn’t wake to the sight of the sun and panic, and where it’s easy for him to fall asleep. He wants not to have to constantly reign back his emotions in case they inadvertently cause the wings to appear.

Kira is a landmark to everything he once had, and now doesn’t.

So, him and L work towards their common goal. It’s hard, and infuriating, and some days Light wants nothing more but to smother L in his sleep. L is nothing but persistent, and sees Light as his brand new toy, and Light finds he has to push back his boundaries. Every inch L gains is a failure, but also a necessity. And an experience, because Light has to share pieces of himself with another human being. It is strange and cruel, but eventually, he is grateful for it. He is grateful that L is there to shoulder the burden with him, in some way.

Light wonders whether these memories, eventually, would be taken from him too. If they are, he would mourn the loss of nights where he learned more about himself than he ever thought possible.

Chapter Text

"Death is better than a vegetating ignorant life; it is better to die on the battle field then live a life of defeat...
Come, do something heroic!"

- Swami Vivekananda

*

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow,” L laments, mournful and rehearsed, “creeps in this petty pace from day to day.”

His voice sounds out, echoing on the walls, the long, sung drawl reaching Light’s ears, making him scowl.

L’s melancholy flooded their room.

L was unfurled from his usual form, porcelain body laying across the length of his bed. Books surrounded him like a miniature fortress. He recited with a sorrowful, mocking tune.

“To the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools-” He declared, the chain clinking and adding to the performance.

Shakespeare, frankly, didn’t deserve this butchery.

“The way to dusty death.” Light interjects, sitting with his arms crossed on his own bed. “What is wrong with you, Ryuzaki?”

L rustles, black hair spilling out onto the white bed sheets, his pale skin melting into it. He looks barely perturbed at Light’s query, but does turn his head towards him, looking slightly puzzled.

“Hm. You’re not a literature student, Light. I’m surprised you knew that.”

Light shrugs. “I made a hobby of reading during the summer to get ahead for my classes.”

“I thought things like hobbies were beneath you.” L says, and Light once again battles the urge to say something truly provoking in response.

One would think that, after realising that so much hinged on Light’s emotional state, L would back away from grating his nerves and irritating him. Such would be the most sensible thing to do. Instead, it seemed like L had taken it upon himself to treat the summoning of wings like a competition he wanted to win, and was inherently eager for the prize.

Light crossed his legs. He watched as L laid back against the covers of his bed, dramatic melancholy playing out on his face.

“Though, I’m sure you related to Macbeth, Light.” He continued, long, spindly fingers splayed out at his sides, the chain dribbling from his wrist, across the scattered books, and to Light.

Light furrowed his brows at the statement.

“I’m going to ignore that.” Curse L and his ability to insult Light through literary references.

L, unfortunately, seemed to be reluctant to let it drop. His eyes gleamed.

“We put on a good play, don’t we?”

He remained his stoic self, his arms folded, face drawn. Played his part, whilst L rehearsed his. L broke their contact, dropping himself back down amongst the books.

“Maybe not Macbeth then.” He quipped, and Light could see the drawn out boredom appear and settle on his face. What could L possibly be bored with?

Well, Kira. Turns out, once they had pinpointed a suspect, Kyosuke Higuchi, and concluded that he wasn’t quite as intelligent or fascinating as the earlier Kira had been, L had found himself losing most of his determination. All they could do now was wait anyway; for Higuchi to trip up and reveal evidence to them.

In the lows of their official investigation, Light had asked for time until he had to eventually show the wings again. Doing it was a tiring, painful process; getting emotional enough to even have them appear in the first place was distressing, and then the process of them actually existing repulsed him enough to refuse L when he brought it up. His back also ached in random periods; the muscles he had strained attempting the raise the wings hadn’t fully recuperated, leaving him twinging with pain randomly throughout the day. He needed time.

So, L had collapsed onto his bed, sifted through a couple pages of text, and proceeded to disrupt any concentration or peace by being uncharacteristically himself.

Light watched as the man frowned, and could practically see the wheels turning in his head.

“Have you ever been interested in Greek mythology, Light?” L asked, sounding somewhat gleeful. It was hard to tell.

“Somewhat. I made sure to read any classics for my literature class.” He remembered the weeks he had spent pouring over translations of those stories, analysing and committing to memory long spiels of texts. In the end, it had sustained his perfect grade when he returned to school that year.

School. Education. Such things seemed so benign to him now.

“Ah,” L made a sound, “Shame.”

Light studied him with distinct perplexity. He narrowed his eyes.

“Care to elaborate, Ryuzaki?”

“It means, Light-kun,” L added, much to Light’s irritation, “that you, in fact, didn’t read it properly.” He continued to affix his gaze to the blank ceiling above him, black hair pouring out around his face, tousled and nest-like.

“I read them in great detail. Multiple times through, in several languages.” He failed to keep the grit and irritation out of his voice. L hardly seemed fazed.

“Yes. In order to get ahead in your classes, I understand. But did you actually read them, Light?” He asked again, “Understood what they meant? Took their lessons to heart? Actually enjoyed them?” L piled each statement atop of the other, punctuated them with emphasis.

“Media does not have to be enjoyed to be understood.” Light said.

“Of course, Light-kun. But myths were written to teach the reader something important, or give a meaningful message. You can read the words on paper, but learning its lessons is the intended effect.” L continued, and for a few seconds Light sat back, dumbfounded, at this absurd twist in their conversation.

“Is this where your grey sense of morality comes from? Ancient Greek preaching?”

“It comes from understanding the perspective of the people, ancient or modern.”

“Forgive me for not understanding literature up to your standard, Ryuzaki.” He scoffed, unsurprisingly bitter.

“I’m only trying to better you, Light-kun.” Like a pet project. Or an object, that L could wind up, open and close it at will.

Light kept his face calm. Would go along with L’s boredom-induced criticism. L finally moved, sat up amongst his spread array of textbooks and paper, and pulled himself inwards, legs curled against his chest again. He shuffled around the things littered around him, seemingly searching for an item, upturning stacks of books and rifling through titles.

“To start, Light-kun, perhaps you should read this.” With a sudden movement, L settled on a singular book. Thin and well worn, it had been crushed against many of the other books that L had gathered.

He threw it over to Light’s side, hitting the bed and landing beside him.

“Is this really what we should be focusing on?” Light asked, picking up the book scornfully. The title told him it was simply a collection of Greek myths, as told by an author he actually recognised. He opened the front cover, to find a long, black scrawl littering the pages, marring the text.

Light flipped through the first few pages, where it told the story of Persephone’s abduction by Hades. On it, the handwriting, scratchy and incorrigible in some places, covered and merged in with the writing, notes and sentences hidden in corners of the book. Light looked up at L, who sat there, impassive and unblinking.

“Page 58.” L added.

Jaw tightening, Light followed L’s instructions, mutely flicking through the book until he reached the page L wanted him to find.

“I think you’ll find it is relevant to you, Light.”

The title stood out against L’s horrendous black scribbling that Light could barely make out.

“Icarus.” Light said, biting back his tongue from saying more.

“Indeed.” L nodded, and Light looked up to find the beginnings of a satisfied smile play out on L’s face.

The Story of Icarus.

*

For all the trouble it had brought Light, L’s boredom about the case seemed to be short lived. Development had come from an unexpected corner; Misa, of all people.

She had single-handedly gone out to confront Higuchi, somehow convinced him that she was Kira, and gotten Kyosuke Higuchi to confess that he was the one currently holding Kira’s power. Bewildered, Light had no idea how she had done it. She had stumbled back in after the whole affair, looking slightly withered as her bones stood out more prominently than they ever had before. But she had gotten them results, progress, all things he was clinging onto with a barely containable urge. Misa Amane; whilst being the dithering nuisance he had grown accustomed to, had grown into a different person from the one he remembered all those months ago. He couldn’t quite dismiss the fact that her sudden lack of bodily fat had something to do with it.

L had proposed medication and a therapist. Misa had taken up the first, but not the other. When he had asked her, she painted on a face of pure contentment, and said that the skeletal nightmares had stopped, and that he had nothing to worry about. L had shared a look at with him at his side.

The room was abuzz with all the members of the Task Force, all of them surrounding Misa and the central expanse of panels and computers. It was a large, echoing room- after spending so many hours holed up beside L in their smaller space scattered with books, the change was welcome.

“Miss Amane,” L interjects, his natural quirk of his thumb on his lips appearing again, “Did you notice anything about Kira whilst being sat next to him?”

Misa frowned at the question. She was practically pouring herself into Light’s personal space. And Light let her, random golden strands of her long hair winding their way onto his pristine clothing, marring the black.

“Other than that he was a weirdo?” She said, looking pointedly.

L turns his head towards her lazily. “His body language, perhaps? Did you feel any connection to him?”

Immediately, Misa stands, affronted and offended. Her face was red, sullying her careful makeup.

“Are you asking if I was attracted to him? You pervert! Light knows I would never be interested in anyone other than him- and definitely not some creepy old man!” She spun towards Light for confirmation, and the rest of the room looked on in an awed silence, Misa’s voice rebounding around them.

In response, L shrugs, thumb still outlining his pale lips. “Any observation is useful. I was simply asking if you felt or noticed anything being in close proximity to Kira.”

Internally, Light rethought L’s words. He crossed his arms, sitting back silently in his seat; and pinpointed L’s motive.

He was asking if Misa, who used to be Kira, would feel anything instinctual being near the person currently holding their power. They were still waiting to see if the Kira’s predecessors- or ex-Kiras- could in some way be identified by the current one, or vice versa. It was an interesting experiment- one, no doubt, L would want to test out on Light himself. Would he feel any connection to the current Kira?

At L’s response, Misa seemed to mellow a fraction, but was still visibly taken aback. She sat back down in her seat, and pressed a cold hand against his.

Regretfully, he accepted it, and watched as his father’s gaze slipped to their conjoined hands.

“Not really. He was just… creepy. I wasn’t scared of him that much, but I definitely didn’t feel a ‘connection’ to him.” She scowled, crossing her legs over each other in a petulant manner.

L nodded, and the conversation fell back onto other matters. The others around them began discussing how to best confront Higuchi now that he had confessed to being Kira; there was a general atmosphere of excitement and commotion in the room, and finally being close to capturing Kira. Light couldn’t find himself sharing the elation.

L stared forward at the panels in front of him, the light spilling onto his pale face, highlighting the dark eyebags, lanky fingers and bare feet.

“Ryuzaki,” Light said, “We should find a way to record Higuchi’s movements, when we act against him. Having that footage would be good to look over, if we want to inspect his mannerisms.”

L shook the chain as he spun in his chair, facing Light.

“I was considering that, Light. Seems like the best course of action would be to have the action happen indoors, where cameras would be able to pick up most of his movements.” The room hushed.

“To find out how he kills.” The main goal. The high they were chasing, the knowledge.

“Quite right.” L turned to him, nodding. Small breadcrumbs of acknowledgement; sometimes, Light wondered if L truly had meant it about him succeeding him. Then, he would snap himself out of his reverie, and face reality.

“Are you up to this, Light?” His father’s deep voice cut in from behind him, the gruff undertones familiar. He felt like he hadn’t truly talked with his family in so long. He spared a thought for Sayu, who must’ve been mourning his presence at the house.

“Your sickness was quite severe.” The man said, stocky and imposing, the man of honor Light had always idolised.

“I’m perfectly fine now, father.” He ground out.

“I’m concerned about your health.” His father hadn’t been comfortable with his short disappearance from the case a few days ago. He probably thought that L had subjected him to something, which wasn’t all too far from the truth.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” Light said, turning around to face his stricken-looking father, who stood with his arms folded, surveying the young members of the Task Force. Once, Light had wanted to have that kind of presence; strong, steeled, stable.

With an unnerved expression, Soichiro Yagami quietens, and sits back on his heels. His face suggests he’ll ask more later, when everybody else wasn’t watching on, hanging onto each word.

He spares a glance at L. Checking for his presence had become instinctual. Every time, the swirl of emotions he couldn’t place. L had grown alongside the wings, as if in tandem. He was becoming an attachment of him; the missing half of thoughts, theories and feelings.

Coiled to and around each other, they created their plan of catching Kira.

*

He reads the myth of Icarus. It is hateful in parts, makes him feel nauseous in others, but overall, he sees something he hadn’t before, when he had read it that summer two years ago, in his own room. Perhaps, it was the perspective he now held; he had felt, lived and been Icarus, melting off the Sun. Perhaps it was L’s annotations, blackened letters spilling off the pages and crammed into corners, some of which he had to ask L for translations for. Benign commentary, random thoughts, philosophical questions, personal opinions, littered throughout the text, as if L was reading along with him.

He finishes the myth, and then the book. The other stories held the same inscriptions; it was obvious the book had been well used and reread. Some comments were faded, older, others bold and clear. These myths had passed L’s brain time and time again, and were now being shared with Light.

He had bought up one or two pieces with the man himself. Some had led to calm, respectful discussions; others, they had been hurling words back and forth to each other as if they physically hurt. Light had forced himself to walk away; causing L to fall and yelp in the process, he had locked himself in the bathroom. Loosened deep breaths, stared at himself in the mirror until any hint of intensity faded away. The wings hadn’t appeared.

When he finishes the book, he quietly asks if L has anything else he had read. After a second pause, L had nodded, and pulled out a book from the confines of his bedside drawer. Hands it to him silently.

The pages bore the mark of black scrawls. Light finishes it in two nights.

*

L, abruptly, gasps.

It shatters Light’s concentration, pulls him out of the text he’s reading on his laptop, and he jerks his eyes away from the screen.

“What?” Light says, pushing himself out of the chair and taking the few steps to L’s side, who, he realises- is holding a black, piercing feather. Familiar.

It had been four days since L had coaxed the wings out of Light. Light still insisted on time until L wanted to delve deeper. Light knew it wouldn’t last.

L spins the feather in his hand, as if examining it. It is long and wispy, the bone-white spine stark against the black. L’s fingers seem to stroking the central column.

“You kept the feathers.” He grinds out, “What is it?”

The one way to describe what L does; scrambles. He moves uncontrollably, arms flaring out to snatch his phone from the bedside table, the feather latched on in L’s grip, his fingers still tracing over the spine.

L grabs his phone, and hurriedly, looking ecstatic, dials a number.

“I need a microscope. Please. No, not something too professional, if I can feel it it’s not too small. Make sure it can focus perfectly. As soon as possible.” He drops the phone, the short call ending as abruptly as it started.

“Ryuzaki. Explain.” Light says, bordering on angry now, wanting to demand the words to fall out of L’s mouth.

“Light.” L says, grounded again. His face relaxes, but Light can feel the intrigue seeping off him and into the room. “This may be nothing.”

“What may be nothing?” Light repeats.

L stares, and simply passes the feather over to Light in a wordless response.

Light grasps it lightly. One of his feathers; forged and fallen out of his own back, created by his own self. Though, like this, it seemed dead. Crumbling in his fingers, flecks of ash coming off of it and falling into his palm. He brushed a finger over the wisps of black.

“The spine.” L says, beside him.

Light passes it through his grip. Curious, he strokes a finger down the shaft; from the top to the bottom, searching.

He feels it. Light, barely detectable, grooves. Small indents, encryptions, hidden in the shaft of the feather. He could just about feel them, if he knew he was looking for something. Light lifted it to his eye; he couldn’t see the indents, only sense them through the brushes of his fingertips.

“Do the others have it too?” Light asks.

“I have only just noticed this detail.” L said, the chain announcing its presence as he reached up to pull it away from Light, Light allowing the feather to fall from his grip without regret.

“It could just be uneven.” Light stated.

“It could be nothing, like I said.” L said.

But L was not acting as if it was nothing. L was acting as if it was very much something, something interesting and compelling, causing him to jerk and call Watari. Light could feel the tension rise, bubbling around them.

L retreated, searching into the lower beside drawer, which, to Light’s surprise, was locked by a key. Turning it, L pulled out a black box; inside, the littered remains of his wings, patterned black feathers in a variety of sizes. There were only one or two large ones, however, and the smaller had to have fallen out during the wing’s initial flurry of movement.

Absurdly gently, L retrieved a singular plume, and repeated the motion; the sweep of delicate fingertips, hunting for knowledge.

L’s face visibly lit up. It matched. Indents.

Light didn’t take the feather from him to check.

It was an agitated half hour in which they found themselves in. Apparently, L did not have a microscope on the premises, and had left all the trouble of finding one up to Watari. Unfortunately, this meant a half hour of a fidgeting, bustling L, whose fingers kept brushing up and down the spine of the feather continuously, like a nervous tic.

Eventually, Watari did walk in, with a scientific microscope carried in a bag.

“Thank you, Watari.” L said, pushing himself off the bed, the feather between his index and thumb.

Watari spared a glance at it, his aged eyes focusing on the one in L’s grip, but didn’t ask any questions, and left. Light wondered how well trained L had gotten Watari, and concluded that whilst L was unchangeable, the people subjected to his presence certainly weren’t.

They set the microscope on one of the desks, Light clearing it of books and discarded paper.

“It could be nothing.” L said.

Light cast a pointed look his way. L remained quiet.

They set it up, L sat on his chair, his posture slouched and lax. He turned the wheels and propped up the stage with practiced ease. Light stood by his side, watching every movement, arms crossed, not sure what he was expecting. Every development could be his saving grace- or the nail in his coffin.

Finally, L peered down into the microscope, examining the feather. Light shifted on his feet, pricked by unease. Anticipating something, and not knowing what. He wouldn’t be surprised, no matter what; Light was surely immune to the unnatural by now.

L paused in his gaze for a few seconds, sitting back into the chair. His face revealed little; though his demeanor seemed grim.

“What is it?” Light forced out, as L leaned back into the microscope, hair falling around his face, inspecting the engraving a second time. It only served to make Light more anxious, which he guessed was the intended effect.

“Ryuzaki. Tell me, before I kick you out of the chair and find out for myself.”

“Amina Raycliffe.”

“What?”

“It says Amina Raycliffe.”

The name, whilst not immediately familiar, stuck a cord. A deep seated dread arose within him.

“Show me.”

Silent, L shuffles out of the chair, chain trickling after him, and Light replaces his seat. He moves too quickly, and for a second, the muscles in his back reawaken to pain. He twinges slightly, waiting with bated breath. He leans forward, squints into the microscope methodically, and reads the small inscription, carved into the white spine of the feather. It is clear and absolute, undoubtable proof.

“She was killed by Kira.” L says from beside him, with an open laptop in his arms, scrolling and reading the screen.

Light throat tightens, but he is not surprised. He tears his eyes away from the microscope, from Amina Raycliffe’s death signed away before him, and focuses on not feeling.

“She was convicted of attempted murder of her 12 year old child, who sustained permanent brain damage and life-threatening injuries after the event. She garnered quite a lot of media attention in America.” L says.

“When was she killed?” Amina Raycliffe nearly killed her child, he recites, she was a criminal.

L types something, and there is a brief pause.

“March. Apparently Kira didn’t think a life sentence was enough.”

Light stands, slightly shakily, and walks over to the box of captured feathers on the bed. He takes out another one of the larger ones, feels for the grooves, and is faced with the knowledge that he holds the signed fate of another person in his hand.

He places it onto the stage of the microscope, turns the focusing wheel, and stares back down into it, knowing what he was going to find. The deep indents of a name, written into bone.

“Karl Weigheim.” The name falls off his tongue, into the air, spoken into reality. Here it was again. The tempest of names, people, and lives, the stamps of Kira. He feels light-headed, dizzy, the words blurring into static. He hears L drop the laptop.

“Stand up.” L demands, and forcefully pushes Light out of the seat, gripping his shoulder abruptly. At the sharp movement, the muscles in his back ache again, but L continues to push forward. He maneuvers Light away from the microscope, visibly incensed, and strengthens his sway on Light’s body, evicting him from the chair.

Surprised, Light is manhandled out, stumbling on the chain. L quickly takes the place himself, peering into the microscope, crouched, reading the same words Light had said only a few seconds before.

“Another name.” Light said. He picks up the laptop L had thrown to the side, and searches Karl Weigheim, which creates a long list of news titles and images, all vying for his attention.

“Knifed a student at the school he taught at. She died.” He had deserved death. Didn’t he? His past self had done the right thing. That man didn’t deserve the relative comfort of a life sentence. Right?

After a few more seconds examining the lettering, L also falls back, his hair a disheveled tangle around his head. He looks alert, his eyes darting to Light.

“There are names on these feathers. Presumably, of each person you’ve killed. With this, we could know every single victim.”

It instantly bathes him in cold. The horrifying image of the feathers being torn from him, every single one, instantly makes Light want to vomit. The feeling is crawling, burned into his retinas. The sickness bleeds onto his face, because L notices it, and instantly shakes his head.

“Impractical and too risky.”

Light forces himself to reply. “Sure, it being impractical is the only problem here.”

L stares at him, the tense body language, stiff muscles, and guarded expression. Light was focusing on not unravelling. He wanted time. He did not want the wings to appear again, not yet, not ever, not now.

“I wasn’t going to suggest pulling the feathers out, Light.”

Light recognises it; the same low, softer speech, with the smoother edges. The tone L used that wasn’t spiked with glass. Words uttered under dim lighting and hazy dizziness, the aftereffect and cure of nightmares. As if L wasn’t trying to spill blood, but mend cuts. Back, again.

His heart, once battering against the constraints of his ribcage, began a slow descent. Light attempted to swallow down the rising taste of metal.

“Good.” He says.

A few heartbeats pass in silence.

“Is it going to happen?” L asks, his voice still hushed.

Light shakes his head, even though it very well could, and he knows it. They may know the trigger; but Light cannot pretend like he has any semblance of control, any shred of authority, over this part of his own body.

“I’m fine.” He bites out, the sentence stuck in his throat.

L looks very obviously sceptical. His eyes flicker over him, taking in the strained and alert bundle of wire that was Light Yagami.

“Perhaps, Light, that is enough for the time being. I will record the names of the rest of these feathers myself.”

Whilst I’m asleep, Light answers to himself, but only nods in acceptance. He is torn between needing to see the names; for confirmation, and want of knowledge, but he does not want to face his own conscience today. It was vengeful, and too good at opening up cracks inside him, to the point where blackened wings spilled out.

So he nods.

That night, whilst he’s reading, committing lines to memory, L types silently on his laptop, and Light pointedly ignores it happening. He forces himself into the deep chasm of sleep, lest he wakes up when L undoubtedly moves in the night, to read the remains of the dead from his own back.

*

That night, he dreams that L is standing behind him, and he is shackled to a chair by leather bounds. The wings are stretched out, above him and in him and around him.

“I’ve never seen a thing more depraved than you, Light.” L sneers, and his voice is not soft, or compassionate, or pitying. It is visceral, like a knife wound, like the dagger L is holding between his slim fingers.

Light doesn’t struggle. His entire body is frozen, incapacitated, and he hardly breathes.

“Foul.” L doesn’t pull the feathers out. He cuts them out, with the knife, digging into the roots of the wings and the origins of the feathers, creating holes. Blood spills and patterns the carpet, the carpet of their shared room.

“You are obscene, Light Yagami.” And L just stabs and slices, severing the feathers from the host, rips handfuls out of him like thread. The feathers fall around him, but the mirage of L doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate, cuts deeper, into the veins and core of him.

The result is bloodied calamity, where the books he took gracious care of in reality became soaked with the aftermath. Light can only sit there, rooted to the spot, hunched over, allowing L to take more and more.

The nightmare does, eventually, end, but only because L disappears, and not because the feathers stop.

*

Inexplicably, after the dream, his back aches more. Perhaps it was a mental delusion, in response to the dream (Light had found that he was trusting his own brain less and less these days) but the pain seemed more intense, bothering him at random parts of the day. Whenever he moved too quickly, or he hit the back of a chair too forcefully, the muscles would tense and blare with pain.

He told himself it was just the aftermath to the wing incident, where he had strained his muscles too much. Perhaps he was only magnifying the pain due to the nightmare, and was now imagining the feeling of his wings truly being ripped of the feathers.

He had spent the next day careful to keep his movements slower, and keep the flinching to a minimum. Light had spent several hours sat next to L in the main room, planning, figuring out the logistics of the plan they would follow through with the next day. The plan to capture Kira.

He couldn’t afford distraction, or back pain, or any phantom haunting of nightmares in his daily life. Light needed concentration, pure theory, the mental stimulation of L, and stability. This was no time for the turmoil of the wings, and Light continued to remain afloat, not dipping too far into emotion. The sudden surge in activity of the case seemed to allow his feelings not to stray too far, and he was determined to keep it that way.

There was general peace. Until, L.

They were sat next to each other in their respective chairs, the chain closing the distance between them. The other members of the Task Force were dotted around the area, doing whatever activity L had assigned them. His father stole random glances at Light from the corner of the room.

Everything was normal, even forgettable, if you ignored the sense of upcoming excitement in the air. Less than 24 hours, and L and Light would have handcuffs on Kira.

“Light.” L whispered from the side, the chair sounding on the floor as L moved it closer to Light, closing in the small gap between them.

“Light,” L repeated, whispering basically into Light’s ear, “Relax.”

Light leaned back, away from L and his traitorous mouth.

“I’m completely fine, Ryuzaki. Please don’t tell me you’re suddenly concerned about me, like my father.” He said, not as quietly as L’s first words to him.

L gestured, “You seem unnerved about tomorrow’s proceedings.” Light turned fully towards L, who, whilst speaking to him, had one finger in bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries, and was licking chocolate off them periodically.

“I am no such thing.” Light replied, defensively.

“See, I agree. If you were uncertain about tomorrow, I doubt you would display it as noticeably as you have.” Light frowned at the latter comment, slightly confused.

“So, I must conclude, that you are currently in some amount of pain. I’ve seen you act like this before.” L finished, with a bite into a chocolate glazed strawberry, his tongue sweeping over his lips.

Perhaps he hadn’t been able to keep the flinches too hidden then. Or L was too assessing, watching him in the moments Light thought he had his back turned. Too acute of the decisions and movements Light made.

“It is nothing. It will pass.” Light said, watching L lick a finger clean of the chocolate, then settle his gaze back on Light.

“Your body hasn’t fully recuperated, still.” L stated, his voice low and whispery, not allowing others in the room to hear.

“As expected. It is simply the result of muscle strain. It’s nothing serious, Ryuzaki.”

“You should have told me you were in pain.”

Light was slightly taken aback, experiencing mental whiplash. L had sounded almost put out.

“It wasn’t necessary.” Light replied, L trained on him from the side, who seemed bothered.

“You have been flinching sporadically, and you come off as tense to me and everybody else in the room,” L continued, now seeming more serious than before, “You should have told me, Light. To request for some painkillers, at least.”

Light’s jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker away from L, deflecting to the computer in front of him.

“I am hardly dying. God forbid one day I am actually sick.” He says, and L only blinks back at him, as if the idea was incomprehensible.

“I should hope not, Light. As long as we are connected by this chain, we share the same fate. I would not like to catch any sickness of you.” L rattles the chain for effect as he speaks, but the words weave themselves into Light’s brain. As if they were important, even though it was just their usual bickering.

“Likewise.” Light says, and their conversation breaks. L twists, turns back to his computer, dips another finger into the bowl with the chocolate covered strawberries, retrieves one, and places it in his mouth.

*

He was fluctuating. Up and down, irreversibly guilty and then completely distant to it all. It was obscure to feel sinful for things he hadn’t done.

Seeing the names, of course, made him want to throw up. He felt them crawling on their back, as if the voices of the people could still talk, the souls still crying out.

He could also swing himself into denial. A detachment from it all. It was easy to blame Kira, the person he was then, on everything that he had done. If he pretended the deaths were not his own, he could sever ties with that guilt, on certain days.

That, of course, didn’t happen often, when L was there. Chained to him. Always reminding him of his actions, the possibility of committing murder again. L would say the words himself, sometimes.

As a last resort, he always had the escape of the wings. Captivating, filthy, merciful wings. The last option, when it got too much to bear, to be able to hide between names and feathers and feel nothing at all.

*

When they leave for their room for the evening, there is a drawn, hot bath waiting for him in the bathroom. On his bedside table, there is a glass of water and some pills, which he takes, and very pointedly does not look at L whilst he does so.

L attempts to argue with Light into sitting in the bathroom with him whilst he bathes.

“Absolutely not, Ryuzaki.”

L, sulkily, goes as if to pout, dissatisfied.

“I already explained to you why 24 hour surveillance is necessary, Light.” He said.

“What am I going to do in the bath? With you chained to me on the other side of the door?” Light burst out, annoyed by L’s insistence.

“Anything. Nothing. We are chained for a reason.”

“And that reason is not so you can sit there and watch me bathe.” Light punctuated. It wasn’t the bodily embarrassment he was wanting to omit; it was the act itself, the strangeness, of L sitting across from him as he laid in the bath. He didn’t want that dead stare and blinking, wiry face looking at him.

They were stood at the entrance to the bathroom, Light having just been about to walk in and shut the door behind him, when L had apparently felt it appropriate to trail in after him. Light, gaping, had stopped him in his tracks.

“For the intended effect on your muscles, you need to be submerged for a minimum 30 minutes. I am unwilling to let you be unsupervised for that long.” L replied, as if it was completely reasonable.

“Should I remind you that it was under your request that Watari did this?” Light said.

L frowned. “I had assumed you wouldn’t be away from my sight for too long.”

Light sighed, pushing his hair from his face in annoyance. “I am not, and I repeat, not letting you sit there and watch whilst I lay in the bath.” The very image made him twitch with discomfort. L’s blackened, assessing eyes on him.

“Surely you are not self conscious?” L said, and Light resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the statement.

“Why are you so adamant? There is hardly anything I can do, for a minimum of 30 minutes, alone in a locked bathroom.”

At this, L paused, and his eyes flickered all over Light. It was strange, and off putting, and Light didn’t understand what he was looking for.

There are many things a person as intelligent as you, alone in a locked bathroom, can do, Light.” L fixed, bringing his eyes back to his.

“Your flattery isn’t going to work.”

“It wasn’t flattery,” L said, “it’s truth. I don’t want you alone for the time being.”

The last sentence stood out. The wording, as if hinting at more. It was the crack it took for Light to be able to unpiece L entirely.

He froze in disbelief. "You think I'm going to kill myself."

For a brief moment, L looked guiltily to the side, away from Light, who was utterly still.

"I will not lie and deny that it is a worry." L, less adamant now, said. Light shook his head in utter bewilderment. To have L look at him and deem him a suicide risk…It disturbed him too much to admit.

The thought of suicide hadn’t crossed his mind. He was guilty, festeringly, horribly so, and it showed in certain moments, but Light Yagami did not simply contemplate suicide. Death could never be a final option for him.

“Ryuzaki,” Light began, “I am not going to kill myself.” =

“With how your mental state has been fluctuating recently, and the knowledge of your past,” Light drew back as he spoke, “It is not too ridiculous of a concern.”

He looked at L, who was fidgeting with his hands, incapable of keeping still. The man was hunched over, but Light felt as if the other was genuinely bothered. Not overly concerned, but perturbed, disturbed by the mere possibility.

“I am not going to kill myself in any capacity, Ryuzaki. Not when we’re planning on capturing Kira tomorrow. I would not be doing this just to commit suicide one day before.” Light said, and L seemed to unconsciously relax a few feet away.

“I would still appreciate being there-”

“Just sit outside the door. If I’m drowning, I’ll shout for help.”

L frowned, and narrowed his eyes at Light. “You have a strange sense of humour.”

Light, feeling particularly giving, gave a small, upturned smile. L shifted on his feet, probably still trying to find a way into the bathroom with Light.

“I can assure you, I will walk out of this bathroom alive. Now, can I go bathe in peace?”

L grumbled, discontent. But he took a step back, allowing Light to pass into the bathroom without obstruction.

“I don’t understand why you can’t be perfectly at peace with me there.” L muttered, put out.

Light looked at him incredulously. As he spoke, he took off his pristinely ironed blazer that he had been wearing, and laid it over his bed, as to not have to take it in the bathroom with him. L rolled his eyes.

“Isn’t it supposed to be relaxing? Your presence often has the opposite effect." Light said, and, once again, allowed himself a smile, irking L as it grew.

“My presence is riveting, Light.” He couldn’t tell if L was play-acting being hurt, or seriously genuine, but it didn’t matter.

“Sure. Just keep it outside the door, please.” Light stepped into the bathroom, and L untied a small hitch in the chain, allowing it to unravel to its full length, a larger distance forming between the two of them. Light moved to jam the chain between the crack in the door, prepared to close it in L’s face.

“I’ll have to sit on the floor.” L grumbled, in a futile last attempt. The grin on Light’s face finally cracked.

“I did that for 50 days in isolation. You’ll survive.” Just as Light was about to finally close the door and give into the sweet oblivion of a hot bath and escape, L placed a palm on the door frame instantly. The smile off Light’s face disappeared.

“I will not hesitate to have Watari saw this door down if I believe something is wrong.”

Light truly laughed, then shut the door in L’s face.

*

A muffled “Light” sounded from the other side of the bathroom door.

“Still alive, idiot.” Light said, through the hazy steam of the room. The hot water was soaking into his bones, melting the tension off his muscles. Perhaps this truly had been a good idea. This had been the least pain he’d felt in hours.

And his entire mind felt more relaxed. As if he had properly rested, for once. Nightmares and night terrors didn’t exist, not here. Light could slip away, if it wasn’t for the random deafened calls and jerks on the chain through the barely cracked door that kept him in the present. Everpresently chained to L, who was insistent on checking on Light. It jarred him from his mental peace.

“Light. What did you think of the myth?” The words were distinguishable to Light past the door, and Light who centred in on them in interest.

“The myth? You mean the taunt about Icarus?”

“Not a taunt,” Light made out, “it was out of interest. What did you think?”

Light hummed, even though he doubted L would be able to hear it from the other side of the door. He submerged his arms into the velvet heat of the water, tilting his head back until it hit the edge of the bathtub.

“It’s a simple lesson, Ryuzaki. Don’t be too ambitious, or it will all come crashing down on you eventually. I understood that when I read it the first time.”

A brief gap of silence. Light’s head tipped back into the water, wetting the longer strands of his hair.

“Anything else?”

There so much else. The entire story had been carved into his brain, he had reread it and thought of it so many times. It was the first time Light felt like he could be represented as a character; a figure, a thing on paper, a nonfictional creation. Icarus. And that being had also fallen, faced a gruesome, humiliating defeat.

“It’s Kira, L. I understand.”

L was silent. Light continued.

“Icarus symbolises humans who want to become powerful, and surpass human nature. He flew to reach the sky; the place of gods and deities in Greek culture. By falling and having his wings burn, it was a story about how humans will always be constricted to being mortal. They will never have ultimate power, or surpass human nature. They cannot hope to become god, and, like Icarus, will always fall.”

Light had confessed this to himself once he had read the story a few more times. In the nights where he had jerked awake, been provoked by nightmares and taloned hands, he had laid in the darkness (or sometimes, to the sound of L’s tapping fingers) and thought about the myth. He had debated every intricacy, piece of imagery, and moral to himself. He hated how it struck a cord with him.

“This is why,” L replied, “I sincerely believe, despite everything, Kira will lose.”

“Even if he does appear to have god-like powers? What if he’s reached the sky, and won’t fall?”

“Even with god-like powers, all the Kiras have been human. That is why they will all fall, as will Kira’s ideology. No human can ever truly become God.” L’s voice sounded clearer. Perhaps it was the exhaustion and relaxation finally waning from Light; now, he was alert, hanging off every word.

“You sound like an evangelist.”

“Do I?” L asked, his voice cutting in through the crack in the doorway, “Hm. Perhaps Watari has somewhat converted me after all.”

“All this talk about God and you’re not even a believer?”

Light felt the knots in his back muscles unravelling as the water warmed him from the inside out. His eyes flitted shut. He focused on the subdued, flat tones of L’s voice.

“Not in the biblical sense, no. Christianity itself is fascinating, but I would never dedicate myself to it.” Ever the methodical detective.

“Many believe that Kira is divine judgement. God’s return, to judge the people.”

“I’m sure that’s what Kira wants them to believe.”

“Ryuzaki,” the words fell from his tongue without remorse, “What if they’re right? What if Kira truly is God? Or God working through the people?”

L seemed to have an answer for this already. His voice raised in volume from past the doorframe, weaving into Light’s cloudy surroundings.

“Then it is not a God I am willing to worship, or revere.”

Light’s eyes widened, surprised, and he sat up in the bathtub, water rushing around him. His wet hair dripped around his nape. L would never stop surprising him.

“You...you’d be willing to go against God?” He spat out, making sure his amazement carried through to the other room.

“I am dedicated to justice. No matter who, or what, opposes it.”

“Please. You are hardly a saint.” Light flared, crashing headfirst into L’s egoism. He couldn’t stop the sneer forming on his face.

“I am aware. If Christian eschatology is to be believed, I am quite certain that we will be seeing each other in hell, Light.”

The words rung out around him, cracking the peaceful and calm atmosphere Light had been soaking in. It was now infected; with religion, his sins, L’s admissions. Light pictured him; L, on the other side of the door, head against the wood, legs clutched into his chest. The pale, impassive features. Confessing sins, and passing judgements.

Yes, he would go to hell. His infernal wings, dripping with the names of the people he’d killed, would only find themselves in eternal damnation, on the backs of demons. The very pictures of the creatures he’d read and examined in the books L had him read. Angelic wings, God’s chosen, and here he was, defiling them.

If Kira was God, it was a cruel, twisted one.

He hadn’t realised he hadn’t replied to L until his voice broke itself around him.

“Light?” The chain pulled strongly, causing Light’s wrist to jerk and rise out of the water uncontrollably.

“I’m fine, Ryuzaki.” He bit out. He was fine. Too fine. He looked down into the water, seeing his own reflection in it.

And saw the overarching, spread wings. A curse. A blessing. Perhaps this was God’s form of mercy. The power to escape from guilt, to feel little, at least for a small period of time.

“I have a feeling this line of conversation isn’t helping you.” L said. No, it most definitely wasn’t. Light passed a hand through the water, scarring the reflection of the wings behind him. The black merged, pooled, and warped. He could not recognise his face anymore, only the smear of black that reflected every sin he couldn’t feel. L had called them captivating, hadn’t he?

“Tomorrow,” Light started, his voice sounding rough, “We will arrest Kira.”

“Yes.” L was resolute.

“And we will find out how he kills.”

“Yes.”

“We will win.”

Say yes, L. Even though I was Kira. Tell me I can stop this. So I can atone for at least some of my sins.

“Yes.”

Light’s eyes flitted shut. He bathed in cooling waters, and L’s words. It was serene, if only for a few seconds. They would win. L had promised him this. And L did not lose. A few deep breaths, a few lazy heartbeats. He wondered what L had looked like when he had said that, chained to him on the other side of the door, only a small distance away.

He finally opened his eyes. When he looked down into the rippling water, the wings had disappeared as quickly as they had first coalesced.

He fell back against the bath rub, laying back down into the water, his back once again soothing. The muscles untensed, unknotted, and Light completely submerged himself, pushing his head under the water, eyes scrunched shut, holding his breath. He stayed under for a short while.

To L’s credit, he debated staying there forever.

When he emerged, his hair was plastered to his head, his face, and he was breathing deeply. His lungs caught up to him, and he kept most of his body under the water, opening his eyes to face the tiled ceiling above.

A dismal attempt at a baptism, but at least there had been one.

*

The night before L and Light begin their plan to arrest Kira, Light Yagami sleeps well. He places it down to the lingering peace of lax muscles and hot water, and the general numbness following the wings.

*

“Light.” L says.

Light looks up at him.

“Did Icarus deserve to fall?”

Light doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know. He looks straight ahead in the car, tracing the indents of the chain on his wrist out of habit.

*

In the helicopter, Light can feel the wind push at him, wanting to claim him as its own. Join us, it calls, Let us take you away from it all.

Light has never been superstitious. He is not particularly spiritual, and not religious. He has not prayed for their success tonight.

L’s black hair floats and frazzles around his head, flailing wildly. The man himself looks like a soldier preparing for war; eyes trained, alert, awake. L snaps his head at everything, sits uncomfortably, looks at Light just to not say anything. Light allows the silence between them to grow.

Join us, the wind whispers, so we can take you away from what’s coming next.

*

In the helicopter, Light watches as Higuchi’s escape is cut short by the blockade of police forces and cars. He sits alongside L, who is practically falling over himself with the ecstasy of cornering Kira. This is it, Light thinks, this is only time I’ll ever see L so alive.

The helicopter lands, and despite the scene being surrounded by whole platoons of people, it is eerily quiet. Higuchi is silent, the car does not move, and Light waits impatiently. L bites his nails, and Watari’s breath is audible from behind him. Still, it is silent.

*

In the helicopter, Light has to make a conscious effort not to charge out, pull a gun himself, and demand that Higuchi, Kira, give everything back to him. He would propose a fair exchange; his peace of mind and memories, and in return the wings and their victims.

Instead, he can only wait. He watches as Higuchi stumbles out, looking pathetic, and it only serves to make Light more angry. The man is too weak, too scared. He is arrested and made to kneel on the ground.

A small while later, people start to scream.

*

In the helicopter, Light retracts his earlier thought. No, its this, this is the only time I’ll ever see L so alive.

His face is painted with shock, fear, and human emotion, some of which Light has never been able to recognise on L before. He is gasping, words stuttering, eyes widened and lips trembling. This is L truly alive, utterly human, and the black notebook is doing to him, awarding Light with his spectacle.

He takes it from him without thinking, plucks it straight from L’s limp grip, and holds.

At first, there is nothing.

Then, something cracks. It splinters, a spider web trailing outwards from the epicentre, like glass. It stretches, expands, until there are a multitude of fractures, and it eventually breaks.

The silence shatters.

It smashes, disintegrates, creating space for everything else. Memories, thoughts, feelings, names, pour into his head like a tidal wave, a vengeful tempest. They swallow him, and crash against his skull. The tsunami drowns the present; he is not Light Yagami, innocent, sat in the helicopter next to Ryuzaki.

No, he is Kira, mass murderer, sat in the helicopter next to L, his enemy. The man he is destined to murder, the person in the way of his justice.

Light had wanted his memories back from Kira. He had gotten them all. Every action, every judgement, every name he had written, given back to him. He had asked for this. Kira, him, had delivered.

I am Kira. I am Kira. I am Kira.

The water has filled him, eaten his insides, and it burns. He screams to let some of the liquid out. Words cannot describe the knowledge pulsing within him; made up of names. One, singular name. Kira.

He is horrified. Grateful. Relieved. All at once. The silence had fractured; so had his emotions, fragmenting into a thousand different directions. He feels too much.

In the helicopter, Kira sits with the Death Note in his hands. He is not surprised when the wings form, given his clashing of emotions. The nothingness is familiar.

There is one thing Kira also knows. The wings did not form out of guilt, and never would again.

Kira is giving you what you want. Here is everything that is yours back, Light. Everything.

Chapter Text

"Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder."

- Octave Mirbeau

*

When Light looks back up again, the hurricane of Kira is whirling in the back of his mind and pushing at his insides. Like something is trapped inside the confines of his skull, searching for a way out, and rattling inside the empty hollow space inside his head. In that singular moment, Light Yagami had been emptied out, and Kira had filled the space, wearing it’s new disguise.

He realises that he screamed, that L was looking at him, agape, and the wings had broken out of the flesh of his back. An old friend greeting him once more.

For the first time, he remembers them appearing before him in the mirror in his own bathroom so long ago, when he had thought it all a crazed nightmare under the psychosis of the Note. It felt strange to have the half-tattered ends of hazy memories returned to him once more. He had missed so much of his own life, hidden by the Death Note.

He isn’t reeling in confusion and pain anymore. The wings, his eternal companions, had taken the emotion from him. He could, instead, feel a constant buzzing in the side of his head, as if the world could never be truly silent again. The wings, also, did not feel heavy anymore.

Light’s eyes reach the window of the helicopter, and he looks out, watching the members of the task force arrest Higuchi. He looks at the scene blankly, blinking a few times, and grips onto the Death Note, hiding any tremors.

“Light.” L says from beside him, and Light has to snap his neck towards the man to remember he’s still there. His hands tighten on the Note.

“The wings.” Light mutters, his voice still raspy and broken from his previous scream. The words seem to make his brain go into overdrive, because it hits him like a truck to the head.

“The wings. Can they-” Light cuts himself off, head jerking in different directions, looking at the masses of people gathered around the street. No one is looking back at him, most still concentrated on Higuchi and the few people scrambling back from Rem, the Shinigami.

The things he knows now.

He has to kill Higuchi. With L next to him, enraptured or shocked or whatever else. He has to kill Higuchi with the Death Note in his hand.

There is also a towering pair of wings behind him, and one look his way could have all his plans shattered in a single second. His past self hadn’t planned for this.

He is in slight panic, which he is sure the wings dull, because his heart rate barely increases and his breathing stays steady, even though he is frenzied about the thought that others could see the wings cutting out of his skin. Light turns around to look at Watari, who is a short distance away from them in the helicopter, and finds that whilst his view of him is obscured, the other doesn’t seem in complete shock or surprise.

Light falls back into his seat. No one can see the wings, once again.

Except for L, who keeps his gaze expertly trained on Light, his eyes following his every action. Light loosens a breath, and the wings twitch in response, the long feathers crammed against the low roof of the helicopter. They bunch and huddle in the limited space, ending up in a small bundled cocoon, forced in awkward directions. They are horrendously uncomfortable.

L looks at them, back at Light, and then to the black notebook in his hands. He looks distant, completely lost.

Something inside Light, a foreign entity, hums in warm satisfaction.

“Only I can see them.” L says, his words layered with disbelief. Light finds his never ending gaze, fixed on him, deeply unnerving.

“Yes.” Light returns back, keeping his voice quiet, not wanting anyone to overhear the conversation.

“Shinigami are real.”

“Yes.” Light asserts, making his voice just the right amount of shocked. He keeps his eyes hard, features cold. Kira is somewhere in there, knocking at the inside of his bones, and it recoils every time L’s lancing gaze settle on Light for too long in one space, as if his eyes could create holes in one spot.

He has to kill Higuchi. Now.

“I will check the book for names.” Light says, and begins to flick through the book with his nerves fraying. There is a slight trembling to his fingers, which L would no doubt see.

“This is how Kira kills. By writing names. Names…” And L trails off, thumb immediately attached to his lips, unsure on how to finish the sentence.

Light trails his eyes over the pages of the Death Note. He can remember himself writing down the names. He can see his own self, hunched over in his room, spelling out fates for others. For the more recent ones, he had been battling with the wings, who threatened to spill out of him at every opportunity. So long ago. Before he had been chained up and not executed.

Light opens his laptop and begins to check the names in the book against the ones in their database. He does not react when the names match up. L shuffles on the balls of his feet next to him.

“Why have they appeared?” L half-whispers, and because Light is too absorbed in his need to kill Higuchi, he had paid little attention to him.

“What?” Light repeats, and begins to edge a finger down to his watch, which is covertly covered by his sleeve.

“What have they been triggered by?” L asks again, with a pointed look towards the things enveloping his back, crushed against the back of the chair. His thumb is still grazing the edge of his lips.

For a few seconds, Light debates his answer.

“Fear, Ryuzaki. A monster appeared before me.” The name Ryuzaki feels wrong and twisted in his tongue.

L stares back unblinkingly, as if waiting for more, but this is the only answer Light will give. He wills L to accept it, not pierce himself through his skin too deeply to see the truth.

L doesn’t reply, but his eyes finally leave Light’s crumpled body and turn to Higuchi, who is currently being manhandled before them by a small crowd of officers hoping to restrain him. One of them being his father, who keeps a firm gaze on the large Shinigami, who stands resolutely in place.

Light pulls knob on the watch multiple times in rapid succession, all whilst L’s eyes are fixed on Higuchi’s scrambling body.

Inside, there is a scrap of paper, and a thin needle.

Everything is set, he thinks. As if to protest, the wings scream against their cramped position, and his muscles relight in pain. All things that are not important.

“Perhaps Higuchi will see them, Light. It is a possibility.”

Light grits his teeth. The buzzing in his head increases in volume; he does not have the concentration for L right now. Not when the slim needle is between his fingers, the silver glinting, and his hand is trembling once more.

“Maybe. Though if Misa didn’t, it isn’t likely.” He hopes Higuchi can’t see them. He prays Higuchi can’t see them.

It won’t be a problem, if he can kill Higuchi before it happens.

“Do the names match?”

“Yes.” Light bites out, because his senses are fraying. The noise is boiling, spitting at him, and leaving burns.

The needle pricks into the skin of his finger. A small drop of his own blood follows, smearing his skin, and falling onto the pristine paper. He dips the needle into the pool of blood.

“Are you still afraid, Light?” L asks, and Light can barely hear him. There is another voice overlapping his, battling with it, and Light cannot concentrate on both. His fixes his eyes on the screen, as if he were reading names, and hearing L. In reality, he can only read the next few characters of Higuchi’s name, and there is a riot happening in his brain, neurons attacking each other with venom. The buzzing had grown to a frantic clashing in his eardrums.

“Light?” L repeats, and his hand reaches out to take the Death Note from his hands.

Through instinct, his wing collides with L’s outstretched arm. It envelops Light, away in his own blackened sanctuary, the feathered walls pulsing around him, in symphony with the sound in his head. The wing blocks out L and his eyes, protecting Light instinctively.

L makes a surprised sound, recoiling backwards from the wing. This had been the first time the wings had every truly moved in his presence.

A blessing.

He scratches out the last few characters of Higuchi’s name, the wing in a defensive position beside him. His blood has created a scar on the piece of Death Note.

Higuchi’s death was signed away in his blood. The battle quietened in his head, growing calmer. He had won. His lungs rattled as he heaved stolen breaths.

Light stares outwardly, into the scene at hand, watching Higuchi scramble and hang his head. A fabricated Kira. The true Kira would soon return in his place.

After he kills L. After he kills L. After he kills L.

“Light, what did you do?” L starts, his voice puncturing past the shuddering blockade of living flesh in front of them, breaking them both apart.

Light realises how strange this must look to anyone who is looking at them. He spares a glance at Watari, but he doesn’t seem to be able to hear too much.

“They moved without me, Ryuzaki.” He says it calmly.

Light glances down to his watch, inserting the needle back into the secret compartment. He closes it, concealing its existence. The wing is still flared at his side, and he can imagine L, alive and fuming, thwarted.

He closes his fingers over the cover of the Death Note. Counts the seconds towards the end in his head.

“Move it then.” L is positively enraged, and Light can sense it a few feet away.

Light knows he can’t stall for long, but the wings had given him a merciful opportunity. He is indebted to them, and their strange instinctual ways. He does not want to emerge from its safe protection; back into the spotlight, stripped away under L’s glare, which is no doubt incensed.

The thought makes Light want to see the man himself, and so he focuses, willing the foreign limbs to move. He is astonished when they do; the lumbering forms shifted to his will, the left wing coiling inwards, back towards him. They responded like any other part of his body would. They weren’t dripping with dead weight, impossible to move, like before; now, he could easily control them. The feathers felt airy, and the encompassing heaviness was gone. The wing returned to his back, and Light manoeuvred them so that they weren’t crammed against glass.

When the curtain of black feathers was gone, L was revealed. He sat crouched in his chair, his hands clutching onto the arm rests, spidery fingers digging into the fabric. He was alive, and wild, his eyes flickering discontent.

“You can move them.” L said, and Light didn’t miss the added edge to his tone.

“As of now. They’re not as heavy. I don’t understand.” He offered L some truths.

L’s mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. He simply stared, eyes open and glassy, piercing themselves into Light’s skin. Waiting. Watching. Examining.

He can tell something is wrong, and Light despises the L’s innate ability to be able to pick apart every last one of Light’s bones. He despises L, who always sees the things that Light has made every effort to hide. Who sees the things that Light can’t even see himself. He despises L, who sees all.

I’m going to kill him.

It doesn’t matter what Light was going to say, because in that moment, there is a shout from ahead of them. Light watches Higuchi collapse with a moaning, gurgling noise erupting from his throat. His body jostles, the people holding his arms exclaiming in surprise, and the man clutches at his chest, as if he could stop death itself. Higuchi dies with his head hitting the concrete, and one crazed claw gripping his shirt. His corpse is laid out in front of him and L.

A creature hums inside of him at the sight. The sound reverberates inside his ears.

L does not disintegrate, because it would go against his very nature. To his credit, L does not shout, or panic. L can only stare, and there is a strange sort of satisfaction blooming in Light, at his ability to take away words. He can make L speechless, and it is a reward well deserved.

He feels the utter bliss of relief.

Light fakes horror and surprise as easily as he always had. He can do this with practiced ease; can use the features on his face to tell any story, act in any play.

The wings, however, are not his, or at least haven’t been his for most of his life. The wings are made of pure instinct and monsters that share his head with him. So, whilst Light feigns fear and shock at Higuchi’s death, the wings fold themselves inwards, and bend back into Light, melting into nonexistence. His back hits the chair.
He berates himself internally, curses at things he can’t control. Light knows that the wings disappearing in this moment shows too much. They should’ve stayed, to display his distress.

A blessing and a curse.

L does not react. The man looks, watches, and remains silent. Outplayed.

Light shouts out to others in panic. At the same time, Kira grins his first victory.

*

Light, stepping back into the Task Force building, finds returning an odd experience. After having his memories returned to him, he isn’t a new person, per se; he has only been renewed, and it is strange to walk back into the space his old, detached self used to occupy. Even if it was just yesterday that he had been that person.

His lips thinned at the sight of his and L’s chair’s, discarded, away from the large screen in the main room. His footsteps sound on the floor as he makes his way to their room, the one still housed by finger-stained, dog-eared books. It is an undecipherable mess, and Light wonders how he was ever able to stay in here, never mind try to do detective work.

He steps back into their shared room different. Different.

Not shackled. His wrist is empty, and his journey here wasn’t accompanied by the slouching figure of L at his side. No rattle of chains interrupted his daily life. It should have been quieter, but it wasn’t.

The sun was flitting through the room, curtains drawn back. He looked at the piles of books he had spent long nights pouring over, until the words became unrecognisable. The microscope that was still poised on the desk. The multiple different laptops that scattered the room. His bed, carefully made, L’s in disarray. The book L lent him, the very first, containing Icarus and so much more, hidden amongst others.

He steps out of the tomb, revived.

*

L doesn’t look at him the same, and Light is aware of this. L looks at him like he’s missing something, the last puzzle piece, and can pluck it from the strands of Light’s hair, the loose threads of his shirt, the dip in his collarbone, and he’s waiting for it to appear.

The lack of the chain has severed whatever limbo they were laying in, the one where sharing books and conversations between doors was normal, and now they are back to the harsh reality.

Light stands a few feet away, arms crossed, as L holds the Death Note in his fingertips, allowing it to dangle in the air. Rem stands before him, her skeletal, deformed structure the main focus in the room. The rest of the group try not to look at it too often.

“Shinigami. There is a section torn from this killer notebook. Would it still have the intended effect?” ” L states, and the man shakes the book, presenting evidence.

Rem, unchanged, replies. “I have never used it in this way, so I do not know.”

L looks unsatisfied. They had quickly learnt that the Shinigami wasn’t a particularly helpful witness, and certainly not a being who wanted to be helpful.

Though, whenever he finds himself meeting the Shinigami’s eyes, Light can’t help but feel discomforted at the knowledge that this thing knows. And could ruin all his work in a few simple words, even though it was forbidden it. Even just the possibility was a sour thought.

L, for once, was not the second most knowledgeable thing in the room. He tries to be it anyway.

“There are multiple notebooks in the human world, yes?” L says, and continues flicking through the coarse pages of the Death Note.

“Who knows. There may be and there might not be.” Light appreciates Rem’s nonchalance. If there was one thing to truly rankle L, it was utter disinterest, and being completely useless to him.

“If there are other notebooks either here or in your world, would they all have the same rules as this one?”

L keeps pushing it anyway. Light had expected this; L was not the type of person to let a lead go. Especially not if the lead could keep Light, his prime suspect, still suspicious. L would keep pushing until he could find something to fit his narrative. ‘I wanted you to be Kira’ echoed in his mind.

“Yes, they are all the same. There are many notebooks in the Shinigami Realm, but they all have the same rules. Even the rules for when humans obtain them.”

L had, reluctantly, let Light go unchained after some enraged arguments from both Light and the rest of the team. It had been a strange affair, where Light had seen, for the first time, L backing down. His shoulders had dropped, head bowed downwards to look at his feet, and then he had told Watari to undo the handcuffs. It was a marvel Light would have paid to see.

L had had to admit Light was innocent to the rest of the task force. The fake rule Light had created made him innocent. The wings, however, proclaimed the exact opposite. It was a secret that only him and L knew; that Light definitely, definitely, was not innocent. L simply did not know to which degree, and for that he was an idiot.

Light continued his charade of being an ex-Kira, cursed with wings and no memory.

L traces a finger over the names in the Note before him. It was a habit Light had noticed the other picked up; a searching stroke, like the one over the spines of his feathers. The delicate touch over carved names, like ritual.

“The rules in this book proclaim you innocent as of now, Light.” L sounds faintly irked. Light doesn’t miss the ‘as of now’ part of the sentence. Just because they both knew Light had been Kira in the past did not mean the other had to mention it at every opportunity.

This is L backing down. He’s losing his edge. He’s going to get desperate. He’s going to use whatever he can.

Light steels himself, and focuses on L in return.

“The rules show that I cannot be Kira, otherwise I’d have to kill in a 13 day period. You had me and Misa imprisoned for over 50 days. Obviously, I am innocent.” Lying still came as easily as it always did, the smooth glide of practiced ease and spiked words on his tongue. His brain seemed to stir in response.

“This shows you were not in possession of the Death Note in that period, yes.” L says. Light twitches in annoyance.

“Yes. It has been proven that I am not Kira, Ryuzaki.”

“Ryuzaki.” Light’s father adds in, his voice stern, “I thought we had concluded that neither Light nor Misa could be Kira, or have killed Higuchi. It’s impossible.”

In response, L shrugs, the white fabric of his shirt slipping on his shoulders.

“Firstly, there are other notebooks that can be used and exploited by Kira. Secondly, there is no confirmation that all other notebooks work in an identical way to this one. I would argue,” L picks up the book with his index finger, “that this rule is particularly suspicious, and requires further inspection.”

The room quietens, and Light grits his teeth.

“What do you mean?” His father asks.

“I shall like to test the rule.” L states it succinctly, allowing the Note to drop from his fingers and onto the table.

“You can’t be serious.” The words push past Light’s mouth of their own accord, before he’s even thought of how to react. Does he agree, to not look suspicious? Does he get angry, to show that he doesn’t endlessly want to be Ryuzaki’s suspect?

L keeps pushing, and eventually it’s going to rip the stitches that are barely holding Light together.

L’s head cranes towards him for the first time in their conversation, and he looks back at Light, with the half-empty eyes.

“Why, Light? You don’t agree?” L’s voice raises in pitch.

“I think testing the book is a solidly stupid idea, yes. We know it works, and we know how it works.”

“But no, we don’t.” L, surprisingly, gets down from his position on the couch, and stands up opposite Light, whose vision is slowly starting to go red. Light glares as he moves, hardly keeping the daggers out of his eyes.

“If the owner would be killed if he didn’t write within 13 days, it makes sense why Kira kills so frequently, instead of lying low for some time to cover his tracks. And why would the book lie?”

“The book would lie just like Kira lies.”

“To test the notebook is nonsensical, Ryuzaki. You’re basically killing yourself for Kira.”

“The only way to truly understand how Kira works,” L gestures, all of them hanging onto his words, “is to use it ourselves.”

L wants to use the Death Note. He wants to test the fake rule, because he thinks that Kira added it. He keeps wanting to make me his suspect. He wants to expose this rule as a fake, and use it as an excuse to handcuff me again, or worse, imprison me. He knows I was once Kira, because of the wings and even though this rule should technically clear me he’s still suspicious. Why? Why does he want to use the Death Note so badly the whole excuse of wanting to ‘understand’ Kira is bullshit why won’t he just accept that I’m not Kira anymore was it because of the wings in the helicopter why does he just keep pushing he said he wants to use it ourselves he says he wants to use it OURSELVES.

“No.” Light starts, staring at L, who doesn’t react to his harsh and sharp voice. Looks at him blearily, like a visitor looking into the glass tank at an aquarium, watching the fish panic and dart around.

“I will take on this duty.” L asserts, and he stands taller, because Light can recognise the miniscule inner workings of every one of L’s bones, and he can tell.

Soichiro jerks, moving towards L, who tears his eyes away from the struck Light.

“Ryuzaki, this is a terrible idea.” At this, Light is even more surprised, because his father was not one to protest against L’s authority. Even when Light was first chained, his father had eventually quietened and understood the need for it. Soichiro Yagami was a protector of order and rank.

“He’s right, it’s horrible. It could kill you.” Aizawa adds, looking similarly shocked and panicked as the rest of them. Matsuda also stands, looking wild, and Light can’t see any way L is going to get himself out of this. Everyone positively hates the idea.

And L will do it anyway, Light knows.

“I think it is necessary to truly test Kira’s influence.” L replies tolerantly.

“It’s too dangerous.” Matsuda says, worried.

“I need to test the rule.” L affirms, as if repeating the motive enough will make his actions normal.

“But you don’t have to be the one do it.” Light says to him, bereft of any other argument, because L will not have his mind changed.

L nods, as if expecting this. “Yes, I do.” And he leaves it at that. No other justification, only open-ended silence.

Reality settles on Light’s shoulders.

If L tests the Death Note, I have to kill him on the 13th day. To maintain my innocence, and show the rule is real. But it it still doesn’t make sense why L would want to test it himself, I don’t understand why he could risk his own life like this it’s outlandish even for him he can’t be that confident that the rule is fake surely surely theres another motive is it really just to understand Kira- oh.

Understand Kira.

Whatever argument was about to come out of Light’s mouth, he cuts it off immediately. The words are swallowed back down to his stomach, and he presses his fingernails into the palms of his hands. There were few reasons L would be so adamant to write the name down himself. Of course.

The rest of the team continue to barter with the stoic man, who simply accepts the criticism from them, and won’t budge. At one point, L starts to debate with them over bites into his stash of cupcakes, and the team seem to realise that they’ve lost.

*

The humming Kira within him is overjoyed at L basically signing away his own death in such a timely and convenient manner. It gives Light the opportunity to prove his innocence to the rest of the force. But Light knows that what L is about to do-or wants to do, wants to explore- has the chance of uprooting every carefully laid trap.

They don’t share a room anymore, and everywhere is either inhabited by other Task Force members or by Watari’s omnipresent cameras. So Light has coerce L to join him back in their room, by telling him that he wants to check over some notes that he had left, and wants L’s opinion on. It was believable enough that the rest of the group hardly shrug, whilst L sits frozen for a few seconds. Until he finally moves, uncurling himself from his seat, and standing up to follow Light with a singular “Of course.”

Now, Light clicks the door shut with mild irritation. Here they are, him and L again, back in the enclosed space of their bedraggled room, the one he was so eager to have left behind.

L doesn’t look worried. His hands hide themselves in his loose jean pockets.

“Ryuzaki.” Light begins, “You shouldn’t be risking your life like this. Make someone else do it instead.”

Predictably, L only replies in similar callousness; “It is imperative that I use the Death Note myself. I will not advance in the Kira case if I do not understand the inner workings of it.”

The lies unnerve Light until his final thread of patience and stoicism snaps.

“You want to write in it to see. To see if you get wings.” The words are acidic on his tongue, and he spews them out of L. This is what L truly meant by understanding. L is a scientist, crafting a theory, and the best evidence can always be tested on yourself. L is sadistic, and immoral, and desperate, so of course he would try to replicate the Death Note’s effects on himself. L would use himself as an experiment to further his own goals.

“That is part of it.” L admits, “This is important, Light. I want to compare different responses to the Death Note. I want to see if I can lose my memory of it, like you and Miss Amane have. There are countless possibilities to this book, and I need this knowledge before anything else.”

The whole thing comes out as a long spiel in a morose voice that Light doesn’t recognise. L is resolute, and directs these words at him vehemently. L doesn’t look at him the same way before Higuchi’s death.

“You are insane.” Light hisses, fuelled by anger, “Why would you ever want to do this to yourself?” He couldn’t see L with matching wings. It would be too twisted. Just the image itself created tremors in his mind.

“How can I try to unpiece something I don’t fully understand myself?”

“It’s a notebook that can kill people! We’re never going to fully understand it.”

“Not the thing itself.” L shakes his head, “The feeling. Of being able to kill so easily. Is there regret? Guilt? Is it a high? Is there satisfaction? Greed? You, the wings, and the Death Note are all tied into your emotional state. I want to see if I develop wings, yes- but to understand the feeling, I must experience it myself.”

L listing out emotions; regret, guilt, euphoria, satisfaction, greed. Perhaps they had all taken their turn in ruling Light. Ever since he had written the first word, the first name, he had signed himself away to conflicting, warring emotions.

And L wants to understand this? Feel this for himself? Harness this?

Let him. Give him the power; the knowledge, the feeling. This will be our mercy, sharing this with L. Let him take it to the grave.

“When are you doing it?”

*

The next day, L unveils the Death Note from the locked vault it was left in. He held it limply between his fingers, long spidery hands tracing the cover and the carved words. Rem watched on mutely, and Light followed him to the table where L was setting it down.

The rest of the task force, as well as Watari, observed defeatedly. Light crossed his arms and stood a small distance away from L, still not completely accustomed to life without the interlocking chain. L opened the book, flicking past the pages filled with ink, and revealed his own pen.

“I am going to write the name of a prisoner who is scheduled to be executed today.” L pauses, “To see if I die within 13 days.” The words filled the empty space around them all.

L’s fingers twitched around the pen in his hand. He stood hunched over the book, back to the rest of them, his black hair spilled messily around his nape.

The name was Hanzou Kenta, a name that Light had seen L picking out from a short list of similar criminals due to be executed by the Japanese state the next day. Hanzou Kenta was a murderer, a killer of his own wife, and today, L was going to single-handedly sentence him to death, to a small audience of investigators.

L didn’t hesitate. He scrawled the name onto a blank page of the Death Note.

The silence stretched on uncomfortably in the room. As soon as L leaned back up, dropping the pen onto the table, his eyes darted to Watari, and the ticking stopwatch in his hand. The greying man peered down, counting the seconds.

It was the longest 40 seconds of Light’s life, all spent in excruciatingly painful silence.

When it was finally over, L’s eyes were gleaming. He looked up at Watari, who was now getting out his phone from his pocket.

Watari nods at L, grim faced. L sinks back, body relaxing, tension escaping him. The rest of the room seems to do the opposite.

There is a sick irony in L using the Death Note, Light thinks.

Thus, L has 13 days left to live.

*

He sets it up so Rem is the one who kills him, in the end. A part of him will always mourn the fact that he will not be the one to truly kill L; that he won’t be able to feel the letter, (the letters, he reminds himself) pulse under his fingers as he writes it in the Death Note. The Kira in him is regretful; though somewhere, the thought of having L etched into one of the feathers in his back makes him nauseous. Perhaps Rem doing it is the best idea after all.

Rem will kill L for love, for Misa. Kira would kill L for his dream, to truly become God. Light would… Light would kill L so that he wouldn’t have to feel those cold, deathly eyes on him again.

So that he wouldn’t feel as if he had lost something every time.

*

He isn’t sure what L was expecting to happen. When Light first used the Death Note, it was done in a joking, flippant way. Light had, without thinking, written down the name of the man on the TV screen, thinking nothing of it. Even when, after barely a minute, it was suddenly announced the man was dead, the reaction wasn’t incredibly theatrical, or dramatic.

Even after the second death, after he killed the would-be sexual predator, and realised the Death Note was real, there was no fantasy-esque phenomenon. Yes, there was the initial nausea- the shock, and the disbelief. But it wasn’t like he had grown wings overnight and suddenly developed the emotional rollercoasters he was subject to now. He hadn’t become the guiltless, determined Kira after one night, or even after one name.

So, Light wasn’t sure if L would receive the reaction he wanted. He thought it would certainly take more than one name for the Death Note to truly situate itself inside your head- and even then, it had been three months before Light recognised any of the signs. Light had had three months of slow indoctrination, the building of his obsessive urge and the ever-tightening bonds of the Death Note. It had taken time for the wings to truly appear, and for the whispering voice to settle.

And time was something that L simply did not have anymore. Whilst writing Hanzou Kenta’s death in the Note, L had effectively written his own alongside it.

11 days, and L would be a splayed body at his feet. This is what Light had been working towards, from the very beginning. His goal. And it was so within reach.

Thinking about it made the hair on the back of his neck rise, and hints of adrenaline surge through his extremities. Light took a deep breath.

L was currently sat in his chair a few feet away from him. His black eyes were flickering to and from the computer screen and Light. Eventually, the other man crossed the distance, pushing his chair closer to Light to bridge the gap. Such things didn’t happen when they were still chained together. L didn’t stare at him so ardently when they were still chained together. Light wasn’t prepared to kill L when they were still chained together.

Much closer to him now, L’s voice lowered. He whispered; “Light, punch me.”

Light’s head jerked in L’s direction.

“What?” He said, bewilderment bleeding through his voice.

“I have come to the conclusion,” L crouched on the balls of his feet, swaying in his chair, “That my emotions need to be stimulated. Somehow. So, punch me.”

Light blanked, uncrossing his arms and sitting up. The words ‘punch me’ coming from L’s mouth was something of a mirage.

“Now? Here?” Light hissed under his breath. What if wings really did appear? In front of the rest of the team?

“Two birds with one stone, Light-kun,” He said, enticing him, “If it happens, we can see if they’re visible to anyone else.”

Light turned his head to look at the littered group around the room. His father was bent over a stack of names, lists of victims that they theorised had a connection to Kira. They were all engrossed in work, randomly speaking to each other. The scraping of L’s chair when he had pulled up next to Light had hardly shaken their concentration.

“Surely, Light-kun, this is not difficult for you.” L said.

“I can’t just hit you for no reason. Who do you think I am? My father-”

In that moment, L’s fist met the side of his face, creating a bright red mark on his right cheek. Pain bloomed from the hit. His face crumpled, and Light swayed to the side under its impact. L sat back, admiring his work.

Right, well. Time to give L what he wanted.

He struck out back at him, returning a punch of his own, centered in on L’s face. L was forced backwards, his body splayed out on the chair, head hitting the back of it. The chair screeched on the floor as it was pushed.

L craned his head upwards, and Light couldn’t help but smile at the growing bruise developing under one of L’s gauntly cheekbones, marring the skin.

“Stronger than last time.” L grunted, and got up from the chair sulkily. “One would think that you want to hurt me more, Light.”

“You asked for this, bastard.” Light seethed, and dismissed the implications of L’s words. He stood from his chair alongside L, and both of them were now facing the other, Light’s fists raised. There was no chain obstructing them now.

The last time they had fought, the wings had pushed against the skin of his back and unveiled themselves. Light was determined not to let it happen-he would control himself and his emotions, and lend the pain to L instead.

“Guys!” Matsuda interjects, coming over from where he was sat at the other end of the room. He looked stricken, panicked, and quickly followed by the others, who arrived to the wreckage that was L and Light.

The slow humming in his eardrums was rising, and he swallowed it down, focusing on L’s sinew body, prepared to strike at him again.

L’s leg raised to kick at him, but this time Light knew the veiled experience that L hid under loose jeans, frail bones and brittle skin. Light darts away from L’s approaching foot, missing him by inches, and goes to grab the other, to finally gain a grip on the elusive man. He clutches at his raised leg, hoping to make L topple to the ground, but the other doesn’t relent, and kicks him sharply in the jaw as Light attempts to hold him.

The hit makes his teeth clack against each other and the bones screech. Light sneers.

“Is this really necessary?” Light seethed, but a part of him was satisfied. Glad, that he got to experience this again, before the grand finale.

“Yes.” And somewhere, some part of L’s current expression gave Light the impression that L was glad for this as well.

Light shook off the pain from the kick to his jaw. He swerved, getting closer to L.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” And Light delivered a punch to the others cheekbone, feeling the skin crumple, and the bones in his knuckles blare at the impact. L buckled under the hit, a fresh bloom of blood streaking across the right side of his face. The droplets trickled downwards, towards the bottom of his jaw. L looked alive.

“Light!” Soichiro, tall and imposing, stormed in, his father’s rage not something he was exposed to all that often. Even so, Light didn’t cower away from it. He continued standing firmly, watching L recover, waiting for him to strike at him again. He breathed to try and let some of the buzzing out so it wouldn’t consume him. He wasn’t going to let his emotions rise too far. This was about L.

They closed in on each other once again, the gap decreasing. L moved sinuously to strike at his left side; his training in capoeira had obviously not gone to waste. Light attempted to move fast enough to dodge, but instead the kick hit him directly in the stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs. The sharp kick from L nearly had him sprawling, strong enough to alter his balance and have him nearly on the floor. Out of anger, and instinct, he grappled for L’s shirt, pulling himself upwards as to not fall. Bristling, he met L’s face with his own, the pain still twisting under his skin.

He was so focused on L and his blown, frenzied eyes that he didn’t notice his father rushing up to him, and taking him forcefully by the shoulders. Those singular droplets of scarlet blood on L’s paper-thin face captured the attention of his eyes, until Soichiro tore his grip from L’s shirt. He held Light back, blocking the view between Light and L.

“Stop it this instant, Light. I do not know what you are doing, but this is not the son I raised you to be.” His words were laced with pent up shame and anger.

Feeling the harsh grip of his father’s hands into his shoulder blades, reluctantly, Light conceded. He dropped his fists, allowed his hands to unclench, scarlet moons dug deep into his palms. There were a few streams of blood smeared across his knuckles, blood he had dug out of L. It cooled slowly. The whispering quietened.

“It’s fine. Things just got out of hand.” He said, and attempted to relax some more. His father seemed to recognise this, and let go of his shoulders, still looking infuriated. He stepped away, and turned back to look towards L.

Who, despite the thinly veiled control, had also obviously experienced the throes of anger. The two of them fighting; being able to snap at each other and bite, after having to spend so long being placid, fake, never failed to dredge up animosity between them.

Yet, L was completely whole. He stood hunched, his back bent, fingers uncoiled. He wiped at the remnants of blood across his cheek; it removed itself from his face and onto his palms instead, leaving a nasty red blur. His eyes looked deep seated, eye bags more prominent than they ever had been to Light before.

Completely whole. No wings, like L had probably hoped. Light doubted that the emotion hadn’t been strong enough to warrant them; he had felt something, an electric current, when he had been that close to L for a few seconds, a spark that flitted between the pores in each others skin. L had been sufficiently angry enough. Light had only just kept his head clear enough not to fully submit. And yet, no arching wings made themselves known behind L.

Like I thought. L, this is fruitless. It could have been so much more interesting.

“Light. This is unlike you.” Soichiro said, still aflame, arms crossed. He was embarrassed by the scene, undoubtedly. Light found it hard to care.

“It won’t happen again, father.” Light assured.

“We are sorry to disturb you all.” L said, his voice still eerily composed.

Light nodded, if only to show some compromise between them. His father seemed to accept the scraps he was given, and relaxed minutely, halting the piercing, discomforting glare he was giving Light.

“Please continue in your work.” L added lowly to the room, and turned on his heel. His crooked form walked away from them as L moved to one of the other rooms, probably to wipe away the stain of blood from under his eye.

*

Later that evening, in the mirror, Light prods the blackened bruise erupting on the muscles of his stomach. The contusions spread on his skin, a spiderweb of blue, yellow and black. His fingers glaze over them as he watches the skin ripple under his touch.

A memento. A souvenir. 10 days til L dies.

*

That night, he leaves his house, and walks fifteen minutes to the nearest book shop. It’s raining, so by the time he gets there is hair is wet and there are droplets of water following him as he walks into the store. It’s evening, and a young girl worker greets him at the door, her beaming smile directed towards him.

He asks her whether they have any Greek mythology books. She nods, hair bouncing on her shoulders, and he follows her to a small section of classics and hardbacks.

Light brushes the spines of the books with his fingers, like L does when he’s not actually paying attention. After a brief moment of hesitance, he chooses a book, and leaves the store hurriedly, ignoring the girl’s lingering glances.

He returns home, wet and cold. He lies on his bed and reads, fingers scraping the coarse pages, hair drying on his forehead.

Eventually, he picks up a black pen, and begins writing in the corners, margins, and empty spaces, filling up the pages, exactly how he remembers them. He copies every scrawl word for word.

*

Light finds L in their ex-room, head bent between a thick book laying across his legs. L’s left hand unconsciously reaches over to box of macarons, which is open, random flecks on cream visible on L’s fingers. He then turns the page with said stained fingers, earning an irritated grimace from Light, who stands a distance away.

There is no real explanation as to why he’s here.

He leans against the wall, facing L, who looks up at him from the book.

“Are you still looking?” Light asks, his gaze turning to the still several stacks of books around the room. Less, but still there. He wondered how many bore L’s signature scrawls and annotations.

“Yes.” L replies, a hand reaching for another colourful macaron, “I want as much information about the Death Note as I can find.”

And yet, Light knows more. Light will always know more, and he is revelling in the euphoric feeling of superiority over the other. He can stand there, watching L hunt down random scraps of information from old tomes, whilst he knew a million hidden things, just held back by his tongue. For once, he had the upper hand on L. True power, that L would never have access to, if not beyond the grave.

“This is fruitless, Ryuzaki. We can’t truly understand any of this.” He said instead. The name Ryuzaki was unsatisfactory on his tongue.

“Why?” L said, a few crumbs falling from the macaron onto his lap, “Every piece of information can be useful.”

“Is this to confirm that the rule is fake? Because we looked for months, Ryuzaki. There is nothing to find.” Light answers, L swallowing a bite, barely stirring.

“I am already quite convinced the rule is fake. I don’t need a book to confirm it.” L murmurs, and his eyes turn back to the black text on the pages of the book, not visible to Light from this distance.

“You’re wondrously arrogant about a thing we barely know anything about.”

“Not true, Light. I have had ample time to think about the power of the Death Note.”

“On me, you mean?” Light says, blunt.

“On you, yes. Amane. Higuchi. All Kiras. All used the Death Note. All with varying effects and different degrees of severity.” L’s finger slide across the thin page of the book, turning it.

“Misa, Higuchi, nor you, for that matter, have the wings. How do you know I’m not just an outlier?”

L hums, the low tone filling the gap between them.

“You display wings under influence of strong emotion,” L puts up a finger as if to tally it, “Amane slowly becomes skeletal, even though her calorie intake showed she shouldn’t be losing any weight, when she was under stress,” L adds another finger, “And Higuchi, who, when I later rewatched the camera footage, showed flashes of red eyes whilst he was touching the Death Note. All users show physical defects when under emotional duress.”

One of the lines jarred Light, who raised himself off the slanted position against the wall and took several steps closer to L, crossing the distance between them.

“Higuchi… had red eyes?” Light said, coming to stop a small gap from L’s side, who was still sat against the foot of the bed in a crouched position on the floor, book across his lap. He looked up blearily at Light, whose veins were filling with liquid indignation.

“Oh. Yes. They were, when I looked over the footage.” L simply adds, looking nonchalant.

“And... you didn’t think to tell me?” Light blurts out, hardly keeping the irritation from his voice, scowling.

“Did you want me to? I thought, like you’ve just told me, that looking into this is ‘fruitless’ and ‘cannot be understood’.”

Light stood silently for a few seconds, taking in what L had just told him. L lied so easily, manipulated words and hidden motives. L hadn’t wanted to tell him because he knew it would help Light. L hadn’t wanted to share his information for the very same reason that he was convinced the rule was fake. L was pretty much certain Light was truly Kira. Fine. L had known Light was truly Kira for a long, long time. Probably longer than Light himself had known.

“Can I see it?” He was still angry that L had left this out to him. He bristled, fumed internally, but kept himself blank. L shrugged his shoulders, then dug out a laptop from his other side.

He opened it, searched for a few seconds, then turned it towards Light in quick succession. It was a short compilation of frames and perspectives from CCV footage, the cameras they had used to track Higuchi’s movements that day.

Some clips were slowed to show the full extent of the eyes, and the sight of them had Light’s mouth drying. There, with one hand clutching a pan and arching over a page of the Death Note, was Higuchi, a man now dead under Light’s instruction. For a brief moment, when he wrote the name down onto the page, it could be clearly seen under the added filters. His eyes had illuminated, gone a bright, raging red, the irises filling with hue. They had gleamed, shone, and quickly dissipated after a few seconds, the natural colour returning. Higuchi scrambled, packed away the Death Note, and fled.

“The most compelling evidence that the Death Note had a physical effect on Higuchi.” L mused, sounding almost satisfied. He closed the laptop again, the image disappearing from before them.

“Do you know what this is now, Light?” L asks, legs hunched in next to his chest, the book pressed against him. He peered up to Light, who stood above him, the image of Higuchi’s red inflamed eyes still pressed into his retinas.

“It’s fucked up, is what it is.”

“Astute observation. But no. It’s a pattern. Or well, evidence leading to a conclusive theory.”

Light could barely find the words to respond. “Of course, you have a theory to explain this.”

“Of course,” L replies, “What else should I be doing, Light? Waiting around to die?”

Light wanted to reply ‘yes, preferably. Not trying to find connections between me and Kiras, and not making theories about how the Death Note messed us all up.'

L was skirting the line now. But there was an air of confidence about him, a resolute pride that Light just couldn’t beat down. He could feel intellectually superior to L if he wanted to; but L would always remain with his head held up, incorrigible. And L would always unveil a secret motive, or hidden scrap of information, or a misstep Light hadn’t seen, and blind side him. Like was happening here.

“You still can’t say anything concrete. Yes, we all had some sort of physical reaction to the Death Note because we used it. That doesn’t explain why, how, or anything to do with losing memories.” Light saved face, building up walls against L, who would no doubt to try smash them down again.

“Nothing concrete, sure.” L pushed the book back towards himself, and the box of macarons away.

“You had no reaction during our fight, right? I didn’t see anything change. It doesn’t fit the pattern.” Light stated.

L looked upwards back at him, the remnants of the bruises still visible.

“I didn’t.” He said.

Light couldn’t see if he was lying or not. He couldn’t pick the answers from the flesh of L’s twitching face, or the satisfied quirk of his lips.

“I didn’t. And I think it’s quite important to know why, wouldn’t you agree?”

Light nodded slightly, and tried to hunt down the truth from inside L, peer beneath the skin and fish out the facts from L’s brain, not the watered-down, skewed and manipulative answers he was giving Light.

“Sure.”

“It’s most likely to do with emotion, since it seems to be the trigger for almost everything.”

“But you felt strong emotion as well. What, we all felt something that you haven’t?”

L, without hesitation, suddenly stood from his crouched position on the floor. The book fell from his lap, tumbling onto the carpet, landing with a thud as L leapt upwards to Light’s height.

Light glanced downwards. The Bible. In English. Huh.

L moved, brushing past Light, pouncing from his placid, lazy demeanour to being fully invigorated. Light didn’t miss the upturn of his lips, the glassy spark of his eyes, the smile on his features.

“Oh, you agree with me.”

“Agree with…”

“There must be something that you all felt concerning the Death Note that I haven’t yet.”

Light is puzzled, and furrows his eyebrows. “Seems to me like the Death Note can be triggered by any strong emotion, though. Have you considered that it may take more than one name to develop a reaction to the Death Note?”

“I would.” L answers, without hesitating. “If it meant I would understand more.”

There is a twisted piece of hypocrisy in L being willing to kill more people using the Death Note, but Light doesn’t say it.

“Ryuzaki.” Light says, turning towards him, “There is a chance that you won’t get anything out of this. You won’t gain the physical deformity that you seem to want so much, and the rule in the Death Note will kill you in 9 days.”

He says this just so the possibility hits L’s ears, and so that he knows it. He says it as foreshadowing, prophecy, because Light is getting impatient. He wants L to know that what he’s trying to accomplish is truly, truly, useless.

L doesn’t waver. He is unchangeable, and confident.

“Of course I know this, Light.” L says, and there are hints of mockery laced through his tone, “I may die not ever experiencing the things you have. I may indeed die in 9 days.”

He smiles.

“It will be worth it if I can pick apart you, and this Death Note, in the time I have left.”

Light doesn’t reply. He stands there, hearing ‘pick apart’ and freezing in place.

“Follow me. I think it’s time I finally ask that Shinigami a few things.”

Chapter Text

"We all just want
that simple thing

one person to see
the best in us
and
the worst in us

and still want to stay."

-marcus trey

*

Every step they take out of the room, L pushing ahead and Light following leisurely, hands gripped in his pockets, Light counts down seconds. If only once they reached 40, once they arrived at the doomed, fated number, L would collapse and spill out onto to floor. They could miss all the dancing around each other, half-truths and veiled lies, prodding and questioning. Skip the next 9 days, where Light would have to suffer L’s continued existence, and they wouldn’t have to waste time in benign things like interrogating a Shinigami.

When they leave the room, their footsteps sounding in tandem on the floor, Rem is in one of the smaller, concealed rooms at the end of the hallway. The team largely agreed that its presence was distracting, disturbing, and frankly unhelpful for their work. Rem was sanctioned off, only pulled back out again when L needed to pry information from what little she already knew.

Light assumed Rem would know little. Or would be all too unwilling to help L.

They entered the room in silence, L throwing the door open without thought, and Light pushing it closed behind him. Rem was stood in the corner of the room, gauntly, the protruding bones rattling and clicking as she moved to face them. It’s lumbering form took up half the space, nearly hitting the ceiling, and those unfaltering, snake-yellow eyes focused in on the two of them intruding. Light was used to monstrous deformities in his life by this point, but even L seemed largely unaffected, pulling up to the table and chairs in the room.

“Hello, Shinigami.” L said, and clambered onto one of the chairs, his feet propping him up as he sat awkwardly.

Light didn’t take the empty seat next to him. He looked up at Rem and her expressionless face.

It shifted, long limbs turning towards them both, the faint snapping of joints and sockets ringing out in the background. Rem lowered her gaze, staring back at L, who’s fingers had wound their way to his mouth to prod at his lower lip.

“Detectives.” Rem replied blankly. It didn’t seem particularly happy to see them, and Rem wasn’t on good terms with Light, even if it had pledged to kill L for him. Before, when it had been them and Misa and Ryuk in Light’s bedroom, Rem had looked upon the sorrowful state of his wings and sneered in accomplishment. It had been happy that the Death Note had taken its form on Light. Rem certainly didn’t wish anything good for him.

“I have a few questions concerning the Death Note.” L said, feet fidgeting against each other. Light crossed his arms and stood uncomfortably.

“You have asked enough.” The low voice pulsed out of Rem and her skeletal form, sounds that shouldn’t be possible.

“I have a new query.” L stated, and his thumb brushed the exposed skin of his lip. “Could you describe the effects of the Death Note?”

Rem’s bones coiled, and its piercing eyes glared back at L, who was nonplussed. It replied carelessly, looking bored.

“The Death Note kills the person that is written into it. I thought this was established. “

“The effects of the Death Note on the user, rather than the victim.”

At this, Rem seemed to awaken. It stood strongly, eyes gleaming, shifting from L to Light and back to L. Light didn’t miss the insinuation in Rem’s actions. He stood stiffly, not wanting Rem to take this opportunity to expose everything the creature knew. Light couldn’t trust her not to hand L with more information, power, that he would need. If he truly wanted to ‘pick apart’ Light and this Death Note in 9 days.

It seemed that Rem was unwilling to give much away to L, however. Her answer was vague. “There is no concrete answer. I have seen many humans be impacted by the Death Note, all in a variety of ways.”

L leaned forward towards it. “Impact. How?”

Rem paused. “Some who use it to kill those who have done wrong to them enjoy their vengeance, and live in satisfaction. I have seen those who question religion, their beliefs, and become intrigued with the philosophy of the Death Note. These are a minority. In most cases, the human is too driven by the Death Note, and loses their sanity.”

Rem towered over them both, peering down from above with glistening yellow eyes, and prickles of satisfaction simmering underneath the surface whenever it turned its gaze on Light. As if taunting him, this ghastly thing that felt satisfaction about exposing Light to L. Light was once again reminded how much he did not trust the Shinigami. A thing that would so willingly give up its life, know that it would be gone in a finite number of days, was dangerous.

Light could never imagine surrendering his life to anyone or any thing. Perhaps he would never feel the humanity Rem could; the humanity of true affection, utter commitment, that the Shinigami had done for Misa Amane. Light couldn’t remember ever feeling something like that in his life.

“Does the Death Note have influence over the person’s emotions? Causes that instability, so to speak?” Light said, and L’s eyes widened as if forgetting Light was in the room with them.

Light had asked to try to keep the conversation on vilifying the Death Note rather than the person using. But also, he wanted to know. Had the Death Note truly coerced him, his feelings, into using it?

“The Death Note is not sentient. But it is powerful,” Rem answered, “It has sway over humans.”

Vague once more, Light thought.

“Could the Death Note coerce someone to use it?” Light asked, getting straight to the point. He didn’t want to skirt around the truth any longer. He could practically hear the thoughts linking in L’s brain, the implications of his question. Could Light be absolved if he pled that the Death Note forced him to use it?

L turned to him, absorbed. Rem spoke the verdict into existence.

“Not entirely. I have seen humans who used it very infrequently. The power of the Death Note varies from person to person.”

L picked up on this, turning back towards her, a finger tapping mindlessly on his lips.

“Do you have any idea why that is?” He said, returning Rem’s steeled yellow-eyed stare with his own.

Light thought that Rem would shrug off the question with a simple “I don’t know” or “I am not aware”. It seemed standard practice for the Shinigami who was unwillingly to submit to the detective’s whims. But its silence stretched longer, and the itching, gnawing feeling growing within Light was hoarding space in his chest. It was whispering, angry, and beckoning Light closer. It was an old friend Light had welcomed in once more after he had killed Higuchi. Now, he could recognise it only as the ensnaring trap of the Death Note, deeply implanted in his mind.

He still would’ve used it. He knew this. No matter the cost, he would’ve taken up this mantle, to save the world. It didn’t matter that the Death Note had power to unravel the carefully stitched threads of his emotions, or continue to push him further and further towards lunacy. Light would have ended up here anyway.

L had used it. But the Death Note had barely any effect on him. What was different? Why was Rem silent?

“Shinigami. Is there a reason why the Death Note’s power varies?” L was basically on the balls of his feet, urging Rem for more.

Rem stared at him unblinkingly, then answered.

“The Death Note has the ability to manifest sin.”

The words rung out in Light’s skull, and rattled inside the empty, hollowed out cage. There was a million implications, intricacies, nuances to what Rem was saying-

“The Death Note recognises sin? Morals? Even though it kills?” L pressed, entranced, leaning towards Rem, whose bony white form stood tense and coiled.

“Again, human, Death Notes are not sentient. It does not have a sense of morality. Sin is defined only by humans.” It regained some of its composure, and the eyes flitted towards Light occasionally, who was stood rigid away from them both. The buzzing, knotted thing in his ribcage replied in harmony to Rem’s low tones.

L was hunched forward, hanging onto every word, and yet little from his face could give it away.

“And every person defines sin differently.”

“As shown.”

“Someone who doesn’t think they have sinned will not be influenced by the Death Note as strongly?” L pressured, seeking confirmation.

“In a general sense.”

“And this is what is physically manifested?”

At this, the Shinigami focused on Light for a few seconds, who was too tense to speak, and a pointed lack of remorse was evident in its tone and words.

“The Death Note serves to display the human’s sin in a physical form, yes,” Rem hardened, standing up straighter, her back nearly brushing the top of the ceiling, “Even if the user if not aware of it. The Death Note makes sure that the evidence of their actions is eternal.”

Eternal. Eternal. Eternal. Eternal. Eternal. Eternal. Eternal. Eternal. Eternal.

When L is dead, buried, gone, forgotten, and I have won, I will still be carrying the wings with me.

Light tried to stop the paralysis skittering down his nerves, raking up and down his spine, causing his limbs to freeze. He simply stood motionless, barely breathing, only hearing the words that circled and spun around in his head. Rem must be wrong. Why is Rem… admitting this? To him, to L?

He remembered using the Death Note the first few times. He remembered the initial nausea, the piercing thoughts of utter horror, and the shock. He remembered trembling in front of his desk. It had all built up from there. The nights spent hunched over paper, pen in hand, spelling names, uttering them under his breath as he wrote. He had known that murder was a crime, a moral outlaw, a sin. He had continued to do it anyway, even when guilt or fear started to grow. Even when he had become addicted to the killing, the smooth scratches of his pen on the pages, and the Note beckoned him in every second of the day. He carried on. Had felt the piling pressure, blips where he fell into remorse, sanity crumbling under the want and greed of the Note, and sometimes wanting it to end.

So, the wings had appeared. Giving him mercy, but displaying what was so well concealed on the inside. Filthy, rotting, sin.

He had sometimes wanted it to end. Not his mission, not being Kira; but the obsessive pull of the Death Note, the heavy feeling of shame, and sin crawling over him as he slept. He then made it end by offering up his memories, and wiping his slate clean.

Or so he had thought. Because the wings had remained.

Eternal. Eternal eternal eternal eternal eternal eternal eternal eternal eternal

Light forgets he is still in the room, and then L says something.

“I would be more worried if it hadn’t had an effect on you, Light,” L stilled, “But it appears that, at least once, you had a semblance of morals.”

Light wants to tell Rem to kill him now. This was humiliating. His enemy, L, knowing this, being here, still taunting him and speaking to him. Practically declaring he was Kira, yet keeping him free.

He was going to choke the words out when Rem interrupts.

“The Death Note unveils everybody, in the end.”

L bundles himself tighter on the chair, pushing his bony limbs and joints into one tangled heap. Rem stares at L and Light in turn, lingering on Light and the dazed feeling that had overcome him. He cannot help but see the faint pride of achievement as she looked on at them.

“There is little you can do now, Light Yagami.”

Eternity was a long time, even for God.

*

The same night, Light returns home. He arrives knowing that his back is physically, metaphorically, emotionally, dripping with sin. In a million realms, imaginary and real and virtual. Whether he recognises it or not, whether he feels the guilt, the Death Note has pulled it all out of him.

He is frayed, angry, but mostly exhausted. He stumbles into his room, head pounding, a boiling feeling rising in his stomach. He is so tired. Light collapses into his own bed, staring upwards at the blank ceiling.

Bile rises in his throat, the acid burning at the back of his neck. He swallows it down. His limbs are heavy, dragging him downwards, and there is a faint whisper echoing in his skull. Even now, when he was so tired, the Death Note called for more.

He closes his eyes, still feeling the haze and cloudy confusion from before.

Rem reiterating that he is sinful, and he knows it. A subconscious part of himself knows it. A past self knew it too.

When he kills all the murderers, all the evil, all the sinners, will he be the only one left?

No, L is sinful too, and then Light remembers he will be dead in nine days.

*

Seven, now.

Light had broken out of exhaustion and the astonishment of what his wings really meant. He still comes in to visit L to assist with the case everyday, and work as part of the team, and greets his father with the same gracious, polite speech that always serves to please him.

He doesn’t greet L at all, but somehow always remains in his company for most of the day.

“This is a dilemma for me, Light.” L says, whilst they soak in each others presence, side by side on one of the couches in yet another of the building’s many rooms.

Light fixes his eyes on L. The man is looking out, into the large windows, sunlight streaming in and filling the room. Light crossed his legs.

“Yes, what a dilemma. Poor you.” The sarcasm was palpable.

L twitched in his place, fingers resting on the top of his knees, “I don’t understand why you are upset, Light. It seems that you had a much harder time killing with the Death Note than I have.”

It was truth, but Light still scoffed faintly. “Because you think of yourself as superior.”

L shrugged, but glanced back at Light, the sun’s rays blaring down on L’s pale skin, “No. The person I killed was scheduled to have died the next day. I also only killed them to advance my own investigation, for a good, practical reason. That is why I don’t feel the guilt from it, Light.”

Light arched a dark eyebrow, almost laughing at the hypocrisy. L was the worst kind of entertainment.

“And couldn’t Kira say the same thing? That they only kill for a good, practical reason like wanting to see how society would function without crime? For their own investigation?”

“But thats not what he’s saying. Kira kills to advance his own ego.”

“Why is your reason for killing more permissible than his? It is still murder.”

L didn’t seem bothered, his fingers tapping out patterns on the top of his knees, eyes narrowing whenever the sun obstructed his vision.

“Careful, Light. You’re getting awfully close to defending Kira.”

“Don’t twist it. I am simply pointing out the hypocrisy in being willing to kill for your own gain, not feel anything from it, and then hunting down a murderer. One would think the almighty L would be above crime.”

“Then one would think wrong.” L simply says, sparing a glance at Light.

“You work with criminals. Aiber and Wedy are felons.”

“Haven’t we already had this conversation?”

“You question my morality, Ryuzaki. But here you are, having killed a person and feeling nothing of it.”

“Only one person, Light, I must remind you.”

“Oh, saintly.”

L huffs, something half from exasperation and half from amusement, because as Light looks at him L looks entertained. He is sitting back, reclining against the couch, feet exposed past his lengthy jeans. There is a hint of the gauntly, satisfied smile on his face. Light seems to recognise it more and more recently. Like L was in the midst of a practical joke, and Light was decoding the punch line.

“I cannot will remorse within myself, Light.” He says after a few seconds.

“Apparently, Kira could.” The words are out of his mouth before he could stop them.

L stares at him, long and assessing, drinking in Light’s manicured attire, but with slightly crumpled and mussed hair. He had trouble sleeping these days. It was getting hard to stay concentrated when he had miniature voices pushing at him from the inside, willing him to pick up the Death Note once more. It was growing again, the chanting rising as he closed his eyes to go to sleep at night. As a result, he slept late, and had started waking up too late to finish his usual routine and perfect it.

L, from the way he was picking apart every bend in Light’s bones, had probably noticed.

“Kira is full of surprises.” L replied, looking straight at Light, eyes unrelenting.

And they fall into silence. Light’s fingers tighten on his knees, whilst L remains completely blank. The sunlight warms them, brightening the space.

Light knows they should be leaving to go and join the rest of the group. They were probably waiting for them, left without orders, loitering behind a few more rows of doors. L, even though recently preoccupied, was still the detective responsible for hunting down Kira and the growing numbers of his deaths. All which were currently at Misa’s hand.

They should be leaving. Breaking. Splitting apart. The chain didn’t exist anymore; they weren’t supposed to be tied to each other any longer. Light had rejoiced at the lack of the physical tether; he hadn’t thought of the emotional, psychological one. The one where it was simply difficult to drag himself away from L. In some indescribable, irrefutable way, there remained a singular string, loose thread, that was pulling him back in.

Light wondered if even Death would truly separate himself from L. They were too knotted together, tangled messily, for the split to be clean. The end would be painful, and dirty.

Light knew he would do it anyway.

After a brief window of time, L spoke again.

“At some parts, Light, I actually enjoyed working with you.” And he sounded sincere.

Light looked towards him. L’s head was bent towards the sun, light disappearing into the black of his hair.

“So, perhaps, my morals really are skewed.” L finished, and it seemed like the only confession either of them would ever offer each other.

Light nodded, squinting into the blazing sun that was hurting his eyes; “Likewise.”

*

Sleep comes difficult for him now. Before everything, he could turn his own brain off and on like a lightswitch. He could cut himself off from the world and fall asleep in a matter of minutes.

Now, its like he has to force himself into that darkness. The empty void of sleep is resisting him, and no matter how hard he pushes against it, it won’t let him fall in.

So he can only twist and lie in his bed, eyes screwed shut, brain ticking. The sound was almost physical; a sharp noise directly in his ears if he focused, like someone tapping a fingernail against a hard surface. Sometimes, a rolling wave that cresconded against his eardrums. Haunted whispers and voices and calls from every direction, randomly scattered in the emptiness. He was miles away from the Death Note; but the beckoning stretched all the way to him, splayed out in his twisted sheets.

It wasn’t that his usual methods of falling asleep weren’t working. It was that other things; the creatures living in and amongst him, wouldn’t let him. Like a constant prodding, needle-like, in his brain, keeping him awake.

Light turned over once more, pressing his face into the pillow, willing the caresses of phantom voices to disappear. Stroking fingertips, scrapes, dragging pulls. He clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise. He curled inwards, pulling his legs upwards towards his chest, foetal-like. He coiled himself as tight as he could.

Time passed. He couldn’t fall asleep.

He opened his eyes to check the clock on his bedside table. Red numbers blared back at him: 2:58AM.

He needed to be there with the rest of the force tomorrow. He needed to be calm, collected, and prepared for L, and his hollow gazes into Light’s mind. There was so much he still had to do. Sleep was essential for him.

And here it was, being dragged away from him.

Eventually, he unravelled himself from his curled position in his bed and threw off the thin sheets. His hair spilled messily around his face. He sat up, eyes blinking back in the darkness. Through slits in the curtains, thin slivers of moonlight sunk in.

Moving his legs to the edge of the bed, Light sat, back crumpled and tired. There was still pushing at the ends of his skull, around his lobes. He pushed cold fingertips at the area, as if to quench it.

He was so tired. This was a slow chipping away at his mental processes and stability. One crack at a time.

When he looked back up to check the clock, it was 3:17AM. This was the worst it had been so far. He had eventually fallen asleep after an hour or so, with quite a bit of effort.

Light pushed himself off the bed, moving out to his door. The rest of the house was deathly silent, the soft snores of father slithered from the far off bedroom from one end of the hallway. From the other was Sayu’s room, kept mostly shut nowadays. He used to be in there often, helping his sister with homework, sitting on her purple-covered bed and listening to her latest niche music phase. It used to be normal, a thing he did when spending time with family and other people mattered.

He padded silently downstairs, bare feet chilling on the floor. He sped up, walking towards the kitchen, flicking on the light.

He searched through one of the top cupboards. His mind was reeling, the soft pattering of knocks growing in frequency. Like something was trying to get out.

He was so tired.

He scrambled, looking for the small white bottle. He checked the label twice. Relieved, he finally dragged it out, immediately unscrewing the cap and shaking out two miniscule capsules into his palm.

Light swallowed them without second thought, pushing onwards through his fatigue that was still ebbing through him. The edges of his vision were hazy. He poured himself a glass of water, willing it to wash away the pounding in his head, and stood there, swaying. His eyes nearly closed of their own accord.

Thinking the sleeping pills were working, he began to leave, turning the lights back off. His feet were silent on the tiles. It took effort to just move his limbs when he trudged up the stairs, hair crumpled around his face.

Eventually, he returns to his room, looking forward to collapsing inwards, and leaving mortal pain behind.

He didn’t get to shut the door. Light threw up onto the floorboards.

It was dark, but the blood was visible. Knotted clots of it had formed, and were spilling onto the floor at his feet. He retched, nearly doubled over, shaking. He was so tired. The clashing raised in his eardrums, and for a second he thought he was going to fall off balance, crashing into the floor.

Burning. He didn’t notice Sayu until her feet were in his view, and she dug a sharp, panicked hand into his shoulder.

”Light! Are you okay?”

She was dressed for bed, long hair falling around her collarbones. Sayu was older than he remembered her; taller now, more defined, and incredibly panicked. She took a few steps back as the red liquid travelled further, threateningly towards them. She gasped.

”Oh my god. Call an ambulance!”

*

Light didn’t even protest when they heaved him upwards. Not when the paramedics shone blinding lights into his pupils, or rushed to check his blood pressure, or asked again and again whether he had taken any drugs and what had he eaten and did he have any illnesses was he on medication how did he feel did he remember his name what was the date had he tried to kill himself and repetition of “Light!“ Light Light Light light light light light.

Light, the Death Note calls. But he is so tired.

*

Light doesn’t wake on the eve of the sixth day leading to L’s death, because he is sleeping, and remains mostly unconscious for most of the day. It is only at 4pm, when most of the day has passed, that he can even comprehend L and Kira and everything in between.

He spent the night at the hospital. His body is hidden beneath thin, crispy sheets, and the sterile eeriness has crept into his nose and settled there. He feels mostly…. Nothing. Like he was wiped clean, slate redrawn. The event crossed out from his memory. All he really remembered was taking a few pills, and walking upstairs to his bedroom, when the floor passed out from beneath him and the world tilted on its axis.

Sayu had been there. Sayu had screamed, shouted, tried to drag him upwards. Afterwards, the hazy flickering flashes of red and blue lights.

He is cold in the hospital room. A few stray nurses randomly find their way into his room in random intervals. They mostly regard him with a no-nonsense, blunt eye, as if they had seen people like him a thousand times before.

The sun is bright outside the window, trailing in past the blinds. He wishes he could be left in utter solitude. He wishes he could lock the door completely, and lock himself away, at least for now. His family had been loitering in and out for the whole day; his mother, stricken, panicked, and crying. Sayu emotional, sometimes angry, shouting at him and demanding answers. His father quietly concerned, brows furrowed, standing protectively at the side of his bed, pressing a hand into his shoulder.

He had awoken to the sound of Sayu in the middle of the night, talking frantically into his ear, asking what he had done. He remembered that. Then, he had slipped back into sleep, rather than unconsciousness.

The sun’s direction meant that it didn’t hit him. His feet were chillingly cold, and he bunched up under the sheets. His hair hung limply and messily around his forehead, no doubt in disarray. The faint taste of blood, vomit and whatever else was still somewhere within him; despite multiple glasses of water, it stuck to the back of his throat, itching in his memory.

The hum of the crowded hospital sounded outside the door. If he concentrated, he could probably hear his mother, talking to another nurse or doctor, asking a million too many questions. Sayu had gone to school under Soichiro’s coercion, but his father hadn’t gone to work, apparently. Both of his parents had looked at him worriedly.

The question of suicide still hung in the room like an inky cloud. And Light had denied it, over and over again, to any person who asked. He hadn’t tried to kill himself. He had simply… had a reaction. Which he hadn’t completely understood.

There was no understanding the Death Note.

So Light huddled in the bed, feet tucked inwards to try and regain body heat. His skin was cold to the touch, it seemed, and the sun glowing in one corner of the room taunted him. He urged to touch the warmth again, but didn’t get up from his bed.

He would, no doubt, be let out this evening or tomorrow morning. Most of the effects had ebbed away, despite the long coma-like sleep he had fell into, and he hadn’t thrown up again. He had walked to the other side of the room and found that despite some slight dizziness from lack of blood, he was fine. There was no reason to keep him, even though his mother pressed the doctors for answers.

Alone in the hospital room, with its blaringly white walls and empty environment, was lifeless. Staring at the walls reminded him of his confinement, where he counted bricks to pass the time. He didn’t want the company of his family; he didn’t want the stimulus of his own brain; so when his father had returned home for a short time earlier that day, he had asked for one thing.

“The book on my desk, please, father.” Light had requested, whilst a nurse was checking his blood pressure.

His father, harrowed, whilst looking mildly surprised, had agreed immediately. “Of course, Light.”

And so it sat on the bedside table of the hospital bed. Interestingly enough, despite being much newer, it had begun to resemble L’s original; some of the pages bent, corners frayed, spine cracked. It looked better that way.

He had read the myths in it again and again, so much so he could recite it off by heart. It was the only companion he could currently stand.

*

He sleeps better that night after a small helping of drugs from the hospital staff. He passes out in the bed, without interruption. He begins to wonder whether he had simply had a bad reaction to the pills he had taken. He knows it a ridiculous lie to tell himself, and wishes it were the case anyway.

*

The fifth day is punctuated by Light, once again, reiterating to the skeptical doctor that he is, in fact, not suicidal. He took two pills, for fucks sake. After a brief moment of deliberation, and the results from his blood test (clear), he is fine to go home that afternoon.

Maybe he is too far away in the hospital to hear the Death Note, or perhaps it had taken pity on him, because throughout his entire stay it is mostly silent, with small hums littering his daily life. It is slumbering, still waiting beneath the surface, and Light could pull the string if he wanted to.

Or maybe he was still drugged up.

He had spent the morning leafing through the book, with his mother fussing at his side. He had asked her to open the blinds so that more of the sun entered his room in an attempt at heat; it remained secluded at one side, too far away to reach his bed. She had brought good, warm, homemade food, and it still hadn’t been able to swallow away the dregs of his own blood. He thanked her for it anyway.

Light was still laying in bed, legs splayed out under the sheets. He had gotten changed; his father had brought him a change of clothes. He also had the opportunity to fix his hair in the bathroom mirror. He looked better, if you didn’t look into the bags hung under his eyes, and if you ignored the slightly anemic tinge to his skin.

He was preparing to finally leave in a few hours under the doctor’s instruction. Not that he had much to prepare. His mother had gone outside to talk to the rest of the family asking about Light; Sayu, with great protest, had once again gone to school; his father had returned to the force, as Light had persuaded him to.

His only entertainment was the book. He thumbed its coarse edges and the inscriptions he had added and rewritten and memorised.

Then, a knock on his door.

“Mother?” He asked in its general direction.

Silence.

“May I come in, Light?”

L.

For a few seconds, he stills, and shuffles upwards so hes sat against the back of his bed. Without thinking, he places the book under the bed covers, hiding it from view.

“Sure.” He says to L. His mouth is strangely dry. He didn’t want company. He didn’t want to see anybody. He didn’t want L here.

L opens the door slowly, peering out from the other side. Watari is not there beside him, like Light somewhat expected.

L looks bedraggled, hair messily laid out upon his nape, cheekbones prominent beneath his plaster-like skin. Strangely, L is wearing a jumper; the sight of something other than the white shirt is so foreign to Light he has to double take and make sure. The sweater is big, hanging off his frame, as if it wasn’t actually his. He is still wearing the familiar blue jeans.

L looks upon Light, laid out beneath the white sheets of a hospital bed, and for the first time he had ended up here, someone doesn’t look at him with pity.

L knows that it wasn’t suicide, or cancer, or drugs, or some mysterious illness. L knows that it is forces they cannot understand or avoid. Light is too tangled, too trapped, and this is the price he pays.

L closes the door with a click and walks into the room, still encircled in the shadows, just as Light was. The sun didn’t greet anyone in this room. The silence isn’t painful, or awkward. They had been through worse. But Light can’t help but feel a bit self conscious, wounded and vulnerable before the vulture that was L, who would pick the shreds off his carcass to gain all his secrets. He didn’t want to be bedridden; as L walked in, he shifted, moved his legs to the side of the bed. The book remained solidly hidden.

“Hello, Light. How are you?” L asks, and his eyes rake over Light’s frame at the side of the bed. He doesn’t look particularly happy or satisfied.

“I’m fine.” Light says, because it was the same answer he had been repeating to everybody for the past day.

“Should I be concerned about your health?” L said, hands inside the pockets of the hoodie. His head was cocked to the side, and he was assessing Light, frowning minutely.

“No. I’m leaving in a few hours, Ryuzaki.” Light replied.

“You can take a few days off, if you wish.”

A few days off. A few days off L’s last days alive? The last five days he would ever get? Light wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“No, I’m alright. I’ll be back with you all tomorrow.”

L sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, and bites on it wordlessly. The sun flits underneath the blinds, its tendrils too far to reach them. L stands, long-limbed and lanky, black hair arranged messily around his face.

“What is this visit for, Ryuzaki?” Light counters, at last.

As if unwilling to answer, L sighs, and his hands remain bunched inside the pockets of his clothes. One could interpret it as almost casual, if it wasn’t for Light’s ability to peel back the multitudes of layers to every one of L’s mannerisms.

“Was this due to an emotional outburst?” L replied, absentmindedly eyeing the small collection of pills at Light’s bedside table, intended to help nurse him back to health.

Light stiffens, back straightening, pointedly looking at L; “Couldn’t you have saved the interrogation for when I was back at headquarters? Is this why you’re here?

L answers smoothly, “I came here to be polite. I am your employer, after all.”

Light scoffed, a small pulse of laughter coming out of him, “As if you give a damn about politeness.”

“Well,” L counters, head twisting to the side, “I wanted to see how you were.”

“You wanted to gawk at me in hospital. Thanks, Ryuzaki, but I’m fine.”

“You think me too cruel, Light.”

Light raises his eyebrows jeeringly, a few choice words on the end of his tongue. “I couldn’t imagine why.”

The air is filled with a laced thread of anger, mostly coming from Light. L sighs, a long exhale escaping his nose, and it sounds somewhat like defeat.

“You are a valuable asset to the case, Light-”

“As your personal guinea pig-”

“Let me finish. I do not, in fact, want to see you hurt or incapacitated by your condition. I am not satisfied to see your… misfortune.”

Misfortune is a light way of putting it, he reckons, but minutely relaxes where he sits anyway. L seems genuine, or perhaps it was the easy surrender he gave that made it seem real. It appears that L didn’t want to argue today. And for what it was worth, Light didn’t either.

“Can I ask what happened?” Milder this time. Treading carefully, and unwilling to step on the landmines of Light’s tender hook emotions.

Light exhaled deeply; “Nothing much. I took two sleeping pills since I couldn’t fall asleep. Then by the time I got back upstairs, I was sick.” He gestured, indicating his fainting.

“That’s all?” L’s dark eyebrows arched.

Light thought about telling him about the merciless pounding beforehand, battering against his skull. The crashing waves and dragging force inwards. The real reason he had gone downstairs for pills, the fact that he couldn’t fall asleep. He swallowed.

“Some discomfort. I couldn’t sleep because of it. But it wasn’t that bad.” And he left it at that.

L didn’t look particularly convinced, but dropped it as well, his eyes searching the sparse blank hospital room, as if inspecting it. They fell back into a brief silence.

“I wrote in the Death Note again.”

It was L who said it. A blank statement, the cold truth, spilled out before them both.

“I have underestimated my own moral convictions, apparently. This is simply to make sure.”

Light gaped. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Sounds like you’re getting dragged in by it-”

“No, I’m not.” L pierced, taut, “That was the last time. This is still science, Light.”

Light laughed, clear and mocking.

In response, L frowned, brows furrowed, “I’m serious.”

Light laughed again, the sound acidic in his throat. He laughed at L, his twisted, hypocritical convictions, the Death Note’s nonsensical rules, his own curse, the fact that he had vomited blood and passed out and woken up and spent a day in hospital. He laughed at ‘misfortune’, and God. He laughed harshly, until his chest hurt, and the sound barely made it past his lips, dying low in his mouth.

“Perhaps I should refer you for further observation, Light-kun.” L says, looking fairly perturbed.

Light can hardly keep the last dregs of chuckling behind his teeth, still feeling it pulse inside his rib cage like an animal. He stares wildly at L, his face impassive, fingers tightly strung into the twisted bedsheets.

“Being around you qualifies as observation, don’t you think?” He replies, one side of his mouth quirking upwards, as if pulled by an invisible string.

L stares back. “Seems like you need the help of a medical professional. Like a therapist, for example.”

And Light laughs again. A sharp bark that rattles in the bones encasing his lungs and creates scratches at the back of his throat. Short and cackling.

“Yes, a therapist. To whom I can explain that a supernatural notebook in which I killed people with inverted my sins into a physical state so I have randomly appearing wings and tend to throw up my own blood.” He cannot keep the infectious, ironic hilarity from his face, “Are you trying to get me locked up for good?”

L scratches the back of his neck with an absent hand. “Not for that reason, no.”

“Ha! You’re right! You want me in jail!” His voice is bordering on maniacal, teetering on the crevices of mad. It is high pitched and ringing around them, the hoarse undertones of Light’s voice clear as he shouts. “You want me imprisoned, how could I forget! All this is just doing you a favour!” He doesn’t think, only rants, spears words at L.

“Once again, I would very much prefer you healthy and stable-”

“Ha!” Light exhales, fingers digging into the bedding, “All this could just prove to a jury that I’m unstable, a lunatic, and I should be locked up.”

You want me imprisoned, but you’ll be dead before you try.

“You’re in here purely because of a medical emergency. This wouldn’t be used to show your mental state in court. What you’re saying is untrue, Light.”

“Has writing a second name changed anything then? Have you finally got what you wanted?” Light bursts, the words falling out of him without thought, and he watches as L’s riled, tense body stiffens even further, eerily still.

“No.”

Oh, this is too funny. This is HILARIOUS.

“Light, you are concerning me, at this rate.”

Oh, L. What have you done. Why. Why you. Why me. Why you and why me?

“Perhaps a longer stay really is necessary.”

Light jerks his head upwards, the sound cutting off and unravelling at his lips. His neck blares at the sharp movement.

“No. I’m coming home. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Final. Absolute. L’s name on his lips, spoken to Rem, made history. Five days.

L drops. His black hair falls around his face and nearly covers his eyes as he arches his neck downwards, and his hands are still hidden inside his pockets. He looks morose, something more fragile and introspective cast over him.

“No, Light.” He says, just as calmly and boldly as Light.

“What? I’m coming in-”

“No. You’re not going home yet.” And L looks up again, his eyes bleeding darkness and something else, “Since you apparently feel so great, we’re leaving.”

And out of his pocket, L pulls out a small chain. On it is a small collection of shiny keys, clinking as they hang from L’s fingers.

The light refracts from the metallic silvers and golds of the keys.

He argues, but instantly Light’s mind is made up. He calls his parents, and talks to his doctor. Under the hour, Light Yagami is dismissed from hospital, trailing after L, following that rattling promise, every step he takes.

*

L drives. It is strange and foreign to see, and when L first dropped himself into the driver’s seat Light wanted to start laughing again at the image of it all.

L is slumped casually over the wheel, his dark hair still somewhat obstructing his eyes. Sometimes, his eyes veer off the road ahead of him onto Light in the passenger seat, as if checking he was still there. His bottom lip is sucked between his teeth.

They exchange jibes and taunts, random tangents of conversation keeping them engaged. They make peace and break it again, and then settle down into the rhythmic humming of the car engine, the rocking feeling of moving on the road, and the washes of society blurring past the windows. Even when they are silent, it isn’t awkward or uncomfortable. At one point, Light turns on the radio, and they discuss their (quite limited) tastes in music and pop culture. He eventually settles on smooth jazz, which L doesn’t hold back his retorts on. The atmosphere is easy, and Light lies comfortably in the passenger seat, his eyes trained past the window. He watches the last dregs of the hospital, the town, the city, fade away.

*

The noon bleeds into evening. Light’s head rests against the back of the seat, and even though he felt little lasting effects of the whole incident a day prior, the slow sated quiet of the car ride threatens to close his eyes for him. He feels strangely serene, peaceful, in a way he hadn’t for too long. The kind of washed over, hushed peace he had only found once the wings were freed and its sweeping power ate up every negative emotion. But here it was, calm; settling into his skin, greeting him again.

The further they drove, the more it warmed, and the stronger the feeling got. It was as if every tense nerve, every strain, had began to unravel, and he left them like loose threads in the wind as they went.

They drive for over an hour. At first, Light asks where they are in fact going, but L smiles, and replies with a cryptic “Vacation, Light-kun. For your health.”

Light stays awake for the entire journey, even though L invites him to sleep.

“You don’t have to stay awake for my sake, Light-kun.”

Light rolls his eyes.

“Maybe I don’t want to fall asleep around you and have you kidnap me.”

“We slept next to each other for several months, Light.”

And he was right. That felt like a whole different time, now. Was that even him? The pitiful, weaker Light, who didn’t know glory or their goal?

His goal, the one he should be planning and thinking about. And here he was, head lolling in the passenger seat of L’s car, watching L, a man most unsuited to driving, steer them both to a mystery location. And he had felt the best he ever had in days, weeks, months. True calm, not the forced, replicated, puncture of wings. He opens a window to breathe the fresh, billowing air.

They reach the second hour of the journey when L makes a turn, and Light finds a sign that catches his eye.

They carry on on that route til the very end, and when they’re nearing what Light assumes to be their destination, the sun nearing its completion in the sky, he says; “Kugenuma.”

His head twists towards L, whose hair flutters slightly in the slight breeze, and the other man seems to be sharing in the surrounding calm.

“Yes.” L adds at last.

“I used to…” We used to go here, to the beach, together as a family. The images of their vacations and trips away from the city break the surface, sights of the sea and Sayu and his parents, smothered with prep for next years classes and reading and more prep, never truly enjoying the experience. Boredom, even with the beautiful sights. Kugenuma Beach and its surrounding town was still born of pure nostalgia.

L nods, as if he already knew, and Light wonders of L ever went on holiday with his family. Somehow, the thought of the man with such a thing as a family, parents and siblings, was even weirder than seeing him behind a wheel.

The sun is beginning a slow descent on the horizon. The sky is a run of orange and tinges of pink, awash with colour.

“Why here?” Light asks, and its even easier to speak, he realises, like a heavy, smothering weight was lifted off his chest.

L replies with a lopsided, curled smile. “I own a house in the town. I like the area.”

“Why now?”

L arches dark eyebrows, staring ahead at the road, “Are you complaining?”

And Light thinks, no. No I’m not.

They cross bridges and turn down winding roads, pass houses and small towns, until they are within close distance of the beach. Light can see the rolling waves and white froth meet them on the shore, the sand dark, the tide rising forward to meet them.

“Sometimes, you can see Fugi from here.” Light says, remembering the time him and Sayu would make sure to see the towering form of the mountain, peering over the waves and sea.

L nodded in agreement. “I find myself returning here often.”

Threads and offerings of truth.

“You must spend at lot of time here, if you bought a house.”

L quirks upwards, and slows the car into a parking, getting ready to stop.

“I own too many houses to count.” He stops the car, hand stilling on the brake.
For a second, they sit in silence in the vehicle, the last dregs of sun warming them from past the windows.

Just as he is about to say something, the words itching on his tongue, Light’s phone blares in his pocket, disrupting the quiet scenery. It is loud and annoying, and Light jerks when it sounds, pulling it from his pocket hurriedly.

His father. A multitude of panicked texts from his mother. A long list of worried messages filled with concern. The screen flashes with his father’s name, the accept button staring back at him.

He puts his phone on silent, and leaves it in the passenger seat as he begins to pull on his jacket.

“Let’s go, Ryuzaki.”

He looks back at L, and he is smiling crookedly back. And Light feels the last few claws untangle from him, releasing the pinches from his skin and the knots in his head. He steps out of the car.

*

The beach is sparse, with a few couples holding hands, and families loitering around near the coast to watch the sunset. In the water, a few stray surfers stay hovering on the waves, shouting to each other back and forth, as well as swimmers dipping in and out of the water. Him and L are at the very edge of the sand, his white shoes sinking into it. A small breeze brushes past him and L, but he isn’t cold.

He remembers this stretch of the beach. As kids, him and Sayu used to collect shells around the pools, and share them with their mother, who would coo and praise them accordingly.

L, next to him, suddenly crouches down and begins untangling the laces in his shoes. He pulls them off, as well as his socks.

After the brief hesitance where his brain catches up to what he is seeing, Light follows, and soon his feet are sinking into the soft sand.

*

L points a long, chalk white finger towards the small, visible island off shore from them. Enoshima Island, just close enough to see under the awning sunset. They walk the length of the beach like so.

“Enoshima Island is dedicated to the goddess ‘Benzaiten’,” L nods towards it and the verdant greenery, “She is the goddess of anything that flows, apparently. Water, time, and wisdom particularly.”

Light looks towards it, remembering the view from his visits here with his family.

“I’ve been. She was a Buddhist goddess, wasn’t she?”

“Originally. Then the Japanese made her a kami.” L said the word so lightly, without consequence. But even the mention of God didn’t broil up his emotions as they usually would back in Tokyo. Here, Light didn’t feel any of it.

Light hums in agreement. “One of the Seven Lucky Gods.”

“Doing your research, I see.”

Light gives a short laugh. “Weeks pouring over Japanese mythology taught me something.”

The sound of the waves rolling and pouring into one another next to them was calming. The soft breeze flitted through their hair, stray flecks of sand ending up in the creases of their clothes. Light savoured every second of the quiet.

“If I die in a few days,” L starts, “You are not Kira.”

And Light waits for the raging blaring to start in his head again. But it doesn’t. Everything is still calm, and quiet, and he is awed.

He slides his gaze towards L. Doesn’t reply.

“If I do not die, then,” the waves trudge closer to the both of them, “Stay with me, Light.”

He stills. The waves close in on their feet, the water eating up at their ankles.

“To actually find Kira?” He says it more to the reddening sun than L.

L twists towards him, his dark pupils reflecting the deep tones of the sun, and he lets the waves respond for a few seconds, hushing the air between them.

“Sure. To find Kira.” L finally says, looking directly into Light’s eyes.

Light doesn’t hate himself. He would never commit suicide, and he regards himself as a saviour for humanity, so he carries little inner hatred, if any.

But nodding, staring back at L, agreeing to the hypothetical of L surviving the next four days, hurts. Physically and emotionally. And he does it anyway, tilting his head towards L, accepting it.

“I’ll stay.” He says, even if his throat constricts when he does so.

L plasters on that fake, maybe not fake, lopsided grin once more.

“I’m very glad.” He keeps staring at him.

The sunset flashes, sending rays towards them. Light gazes into it, burning the image into his retinas.

Swearing to stay with L, when watching the sunset on the fourth day L will ever live. Once it disappears, it will signal the start of the third.

He has done so, so much worse. And yet, for some reason, it hurts, and knots inside the cavities of his chest.

“Of course, if I do in fact die,” L begins, his voice low and mellow, “You will take over the mantle of L. So, a win for you either way.” That smile.

‘If I do in fact die’.

“A ‘win’ is finding Kira, Ryuzaki.”

“Just say L.” L states, chewing on his lip again, “And yes. You are correct.”

The sun is sinking deeper, into the recesses of the rising sea. The melting hues, the red and orange and pink, merge into one as they both stare outwardly towards it, the light adding tinges to their skin.

Light’s feet curl in the lapping waves of the cold water.

“L,” He thought saying his name would fix the uneasiness of saying ‘Ryuzaki’, but all it added was an extra weight onto the conversation they didn’t need.

“L,” He starts again, “Thank you.”

For giving me a good fight. For breaking my boredom. For helping me find something I didn’t have before, an adversary and an equal. For helping me decode the wings. For the book. For making your death so easy. For this.

“What are you thanking for?” L replies with.

“Not kidnapping me.”

“Been there, done that.”

“I’m thanking you for taking me here.”

L threads his hands back into his pockets, stood languidly at the edge of the water, watching it wade back and forth, towards and away from them.

“I take it it worked?” He says, looking at the horizon.

“Yes.” L, you already knew it did.

“I stopped feeling any strong effects after the first hour.” A generalisation. He recorded the exact minute he felt like the pull of the Death Note truly left him.

“I thought so. The Note has quite the large radius, it seems.” L answered.

“And you?”

L looked briefly put off, frustrated. “Nothing changed. I felt nothing.”

L’s clothes slightly flutter as a stronger push of wind flows past them. His eyes are wide, gazing into the reddening star polluting the horizon. Light doesn’t look at it too strongly. L looks at it like an old friend.

“This was for the both of us, then.” L nods, and Light nods back.

“I appreciate it.”

“Do you think we could have ever,” L blurts, eyes locked on the last remnants of the sun dipping past the surface, “Stayed here?”

Away from the Death Note. He is too far away for it to reach him. To stay, with this painted sky, and glistening view. To stay, with company that can match him, intrigues him, a puzzle he could attempt to decode for years. To stay, and allow the world to exist without him.

To stay, and give up Kira and everything he had worked for.

“No.” Light says. “We would’ve both wanted to go back, eventually.”

Emotional hurt. Real emotion, not tampered with.

L hums. “I am glad you said that.”

Light’s feet start to feel numb. He reaches down to pick up his shoes again, where they were left discarded in the sand. He is shaking, from cold or from L or from whatever else.

“You know any good spots around here?”

L turns to him, his eyes finally dragging away from the now-deceased sun. It is gone, past the dip of the Earth. The night sets in, trailing into the crevices where the sun couldn’t reach. It has gotten dark.

L follows him, picking up his own shoes, hair blending into the sky, “Yes. I do.”

*

Originally, Light thinks about a cafe, or a restaurant, but given that the night had set in, all that drew their attention were the various bars and clubs that lined the main street.

L looks at him with a sidelong glance.

“No.” Light replies. “Not there.”

So they stumble into a small store, Light’s feet starting to ache from all the walking, still shivering from the night air. Him and L look like a sight; slightly unhinged, the pair of them, both teetering on the edge of something they couldn’t explain. The store attendant looks unsettled. Light is cut loose, and he starts to abuse the freedom of being away, in a different town, with L.

L buys a large bottle of alcohol. At first, Light cringes at the thought of sharing it.

By the end of the night, him and L have forced out its last drop, and there is a blurriness the edges of his vision, and a warmness in his lungs.

The taste of his own blood and vomit is finally, finally, burned away.

They spend a few hours weaved into each others words, thoughts, and opinions. They sit at the edge of the sea wall, passing the bottle between them, talking and shouting and, at some points, whispering.

Light thought seeing L drive was the strangest thing he’d ever seen him do. Seeing L drunk was even stranger. His body relaxes, becomes fluid, the sharp and knobby parts of him becoming softer, the muscles melting. He looks less like knitted bone. The skin of his face isn’t chalk white, from under the light of the lamppost.

He hears L laugh. He sees that crooked smile a few thousand times too many. They unleash, consume, and unravel in each others company. Light is free. For one night only. He intends to use it.

Kira does not exist, not when: L is telling him about one of his favourite cases, when him and L are making twin judgements about passerbys, when they argue about the intricacies of world religion, when they suddenly dip into foreign languages, when L recites extracts of Icarus in its original Greek.

Hours pass, the bottle ends. L can’t drive them back. Nor can he drive them to his house. So they walk it, for nearly an hour. An hour of jeering, hazy vision, lazy brushes and trembling. Teetering and finally letting go.

When they finally get there, and L pushes his key into the lock, Light is exhausted. But in a good way. L’s house is dark as he steps in, and he tries to fumble for a light switch, his eyes adjusting to the low light.

The front door clicks behind him as he leans against the wall for support, L joining with a thud, his body swaying involuntarily.

They are close. The air is tighter, breaths combining the the space, dopamine still coursing in Light’s brain. He is still cold, leeching off the L’s body warmth next to him.

Nothing happens. Some things are just too hard to let go.

Light ends up asleep on one of the beds, sheets unmade, last flecks of sand littering the mattress.

L was there, leant heavily against the doorway. He thanked L again, he thinks. The words cooming out of his mouth are barely his own, fuelled by something else, empty of his usual decorum.

Neither of them remember the night very well. In the future, Light finds he wishes he did.

Chapter Text

'What would you say? The truth or some lie?

'When mourning for me when I simply die?'

- Eulogy

*

Light Yagami wakes up at midday, on the third day leading to L’s death, on top of the covers in a random bed in one of L’s houses, in Kugenuma. For a few slow, hazy seconds, he stares at the ceiling above him, recollecting what he could. There is a headache settled in the corner of his brain, but he recognises it not as the Death Note induced mania, but as simply the remnants of alcohol. His body is still clinging onto lethargy, and it is a struggle to get out of bed.

Once he does so, he fixes himself in L’s bathroom, as much as possible. He steps out without a second thought, too tired to properly compute.

When he leaves and enters the living room of L’s house, L is already awake, and spread out upon the couch, his bare feet propped on a small table. He is in his routine state of disarray and lack of decorum. His eyelids, even more ringed than usual, sometimes begin to pull downwards, signalling the similar tiredness Light feels. He slides a glance at Light, who stands in the space wordlessly, and doesn’t add anything other than a “Good morning.”

Light nods, and then asks; “Do you know where my phone is?”. His voice is dry and scratchy.

L looks back at him pointedly from his position on the couch, “You left it in the car. Before we left.”

Which Light, had, in fact, done. He remembered the blaring phone calls and flickering missed messages from his parents, which he had then promptly ignored, leaving it in the seat of L’s car.

Light doesn’t respond for a few seconds, remembering this, berating his past self.

“Thankfully, I still have mine.” L added, delving into his pocket to produce his own, familiar phone, holding it delicately between his fingers. L looks at him, almost upside from the position he is laying on the couch, and dials a number with practiced ease.

The result was pretty immediate. Within the hour, Watari was sat at the front of the house in the car from the previous night. Both of them stumbled into their seats, Light attempting to hold in a modicum of dignity.

The older man’s eyes trailed up and down L as he clambered in, who was bunched in the front seat. His lips were drawn, face shuttered shut as he made his silent assessment.

Watari didn’t say a single word. Light rolled down his window to feel the incoming wind blow past his face as they rode the highway, the coastline stretching further and further alongside them until it disappeared. The previous night slipped through the cracks as they drove away from it.

Light checked his phone in the car, the headache rearing its head once again as he saw the myriad of missed calls and texts he didn’t have the patience for. He responded to his mother and father with an apologetic text. The only other thing he adds is to ask if they collected his belongings from his vacated hospital room, and if they could please return the book laying under his pillow. His teeth are tightly clenched as he writes out the words.

By afternoon, they are back in Tokyo. Watari drops Light off outside his home, which Light clambers out of sullenly. He turns, wondering whether he should say something to L, sat in the passenger seat.

“I’ll be back by evening.” Is the only thing he deems suitable enough to say in front of Watari, mentally discarding any other comment.

“It’s not necessary, Light.” L responds. He blinks back at him blearily, resting heavily in the seat.

“I’ll be there.” Light finishes, turns on his heel, and walks up the pathway to his house, where his mother rushes him as soon as he steps inside. She hugs him, and after a night of cold wind and empty space, he appreciates the warmth.

*

He survives the next few hours of worry, prodding and questions. Sayu sidles up as close as she can to him, touching him constantly, as if assuring herself he is still here. His mother berates him for doing something so stupid when he was already weak. His father gets gruff and serious. He listens, nods, and placates with half-hearted apologies.

His toes curl with the remnants of sand in his socks, his hair, littered into the nooks of his body.

He showers, washing himself down with hot water, the cold, twilight hours evaporating off of him. Anger and familiarity and sarcasm and blank looks, all washed down the drain.

Light spends a long time scrubbing at his skin, pink- tinged when he finally steps out. Absentmindedly, he traces wrinkled fingers over the dips in his shoulder blades, and finds no sweeping arches there to greet him. He stares at himself in the mirror, eyes ringed after a night with little sleep.

*

Light is back at headquarters by evening, like he said. It is easy to step back into his role, as well as stepping back into the towering glass building ahead of him. He winds down its corridors, presses the buttons on the elevator, hears its hum as it takes him upwards, towards L, with every second.

When he arrives, he steps briskly into the central room, and realises its empty. The large monitors on the wall are blackened and shut off, and only his steps can be heard in the space. Light presses forward, approaching their desk, and the discarded and empty chairs. He can almost see L lounging in his, head tilted back, faking relaxation and idleness.

He looks back upon the scene, the stage with the actors absent, and turns away. He continues down a side corridor, moving without thinking. He knows exactly where to go. He pulls the handle on the door; walks into the room where him and L put everything together, and subsequently everything fell apart.

Their room is almost identical to when he last saw it. Their makes Light’s face twinge in discomfort, but it’s the truth. L still has mountains of books stacked atop of each other in random corners, and the desk still has the microscope laying on top of it. His bed is still neatly made, L’s a mess of twisted sheets, left rustled. He wonders if L has been in here since they both abandoned it.

He trails a fingertip down the wall, stepping further inwards. The room is like a tomb, an empty capsule, and inside there are ghosts.

Light turns on his heel to leave, his face drawn. I’ll burn this place when L dies, he thinks. It’s the only way.

He steps back out, the tendrils of memories seeping off him as he crosses the threshold. He closes the door behind him with a click.

He does not see L when he turns back around. Instead, he comes face to face with Watari.

The older man does not smile, nor look at all startled by Light’s presence. In fact, Light quickly assumes that the man had been waiting out here, ready to happen upon Light when he walked back out of the room.

“Good evening.” Light says, voice honeyed.

“Mr. Yagami,” Watari responds, as Light steps away from the room he had just entered, “Are you looking for something?”

Light is slightly surprised by this question. He would usually revert into utter politeness, his obedient, formal way of speaking when talking to unknown elders. It usually made them adore him. Yet, Light resolved that this wouldn’t work on Watari.

“No,” He shakes his head, “Could you tell me where L is, please?”

Watari’s mustache twitches, and his eyes stray from Light’s, looking momentarily at the wall, “L is not here this evening. He had some other business to attend to.” The man doesn’t sound apologetic in the slightest.

Light’s jaw tightens as he hears the words. Obviously, it was too much to expect L to conform to social norms. The true thing that bothered him, however, was the fact that L had something else- had chosen something other than him- to spend his time with, focus his attention on.

As if seeing the conundrum play out on Light’s face, Watari gestured further down the corridor.

“Mr.Yagami, would you join me for some coffee?”

The request is absurd to Light, who has never spent any time in Watari’s company and never wished to. The way Watari says it, however, isn’t a question.

“Of course.” Light simply says, and before he even finishes, Watari is walking down the corridor, his footsteps bouncing off the walls. For an older man, he is still fit, and in good health, with no sign of aging problems or stiff joints. Light follows him morosely, turning over L’s absence in his head.

“How are you feeling, Mr.Yagami?” Watari comments, as they turn into what was the building’s main kitchen and dining area. Watari walks in briskly, wanders over to boil water and prepare coffee, whilst Light takes a hesitant seat in one of the chairs.

Light urges himself to make it past the small talk. “Quite well, actually.”

“Your condition a few days ago was quite severe.” Watari says with his back turned towards him.

“Nothing to worry about. I’m completely fine.”

Watari hums, and for some reason, despite their casual conversation, Light doesn’t sense Watari’s motives as being particularly friendly. Watari does not hide his dissatisfaction at Light well, or, perhaps, does not try to at all.

Watari continues making their coffee. “I doubt that, Mr.Yagami. You need more time to recover. You are quite sick.”

The words are supposed to be kind, but the tone lacing them is anything but gentle. Watari is curt, an emotionless tone that signifies pure indifference. Going through the motions of concern, but fake enough that its visible to both of them. Light’s lip curls.

“I assure you, I’m just fine to continue working. You shouldn’t worry.” Light says.

Watari stirs a spoon in both their cups of coffee, with nonchalance, his greying hair, curling on his nape. The older man is still well built for his age; sturdy, not the frail, paper-thin puppet Light had previously mistaken him as. He continues to revaluate his assessment of Watari as the man trundles over, cups in hand, and passes one to Light over the table.

“You should not sacrifice your health for this case, Mr.Yagami.” Watari grumbles.

“I am sacrificing very little.” Light responds almost immediately, instinctually.

“Oh, I find that hard to believe.” Watari comments fluidly, after taking a small sip of steaming coffee, “There is much a young man such as yourself is missing out on. It’s quite disappointing, I imagine.”

“Not at all, in fact. I’m not sure why you’d think so.”

“Well,” Watari begins, “Your education, Mr. Yagami. The most important thing. And I cannot imagine you’re happy being stuck inside so much- surely a young man like you would love to go out with friends, meet someone perhaps. I’m sure all your other friends are doing the same.”

Light quietens, the words drying up in his throat unwillingly. The cogs in his head whir, working overdrive, hit with the thought; that no, in fact, he would not rather be doing those things. Going out, wasting time and money getting drunk, having to suffer through the banalities of a woman hanging onto is every word and expecting something he had no interest in offering. The very idea of doing something like that in his spare time was demeaning.

Something sly, wicked, whispered in ear- hadn’t he, just the other night, technically done that very thing? Gone out, gotten drunk, spent time with… well, the closest thing in his life he could call a friend, a title hidden amongst ‘enemy’ and ‘adversary’. He ignored it, taking the second to drink, in which Watari continued to fill the silence whilst Light mentally deliberated.

Watari laughed curtly, his low voice raspy towards the edges, “Unless, well, such things do not interest you.”

“I’d much rather spend my time doing something productive, if I’m honest.” Light replied. “And I cannot think of anything more important than the Kira case.”

Apparently, spending a night in Kugenuma, calculating the number of grains of sand in L’s hair, drunk, was even more important, then.

“It is… quite strange.” Watari was softer, more contemplative. “I haven’t seen L so invested in quite a long time.”

Light took a polite sip of coffee. “It’s an enthralling case.”

“Invested in the case, yes. And you.”

Light looked away from Watari for a few seconds, avoiding direct contact. His hand tightened on his knee.

“What do you mean by that?” Slightly demanding, even if he tried not to make it so.

Watari’s mustache twitched, lips drawn tight. “I did not say it was a good thing, Mr. Yagami. Simply an observation.”

“Then I ask that you elaborate on that observation, sir.” The ‘sir’ was tacked on haphazardly on the end, an afterthought at the finish of his irate sentence.

To his credit, Watari did not hesitate. He did not waver.The man had expected a hostile conversation, had sown the seeds, and was now reaping the consequences.

“Mr. Yagami, I have been with L for a number of years. I know that he is prone to becoming entirely absorbed in cases. I have never before seen him become absorbed in a person.” Watari frowns, his forehead creasing into window blinds, his wrinkled hands clenched around his cup, “And, I am even more disappointed to see that, you, Mr. Yagami, return the fascination.”

The words are heavy, drop down on Light’s chest like weights, his breaths becoming more laboured. He breathes through the slight cracks in his clenched teeth. The room becomes silent, awkwardly so, empty and unlikeable. Light speaks slowly;

“I do not understand what you mean.” Calm, collected, placated, polite. Unmoved.

Watari takes another sip from his cup, brow furrowed, “I do not pretend to understand the whims of geniuses; I am not one myself. In the beginning, in fact, I believed this companionship between the two of you would be helpful; you both understand each other quite well, despite the frequent arguments. You are similar in many ways.”

“Perhaps.” Is all Light says, the word choking him, bitterly escaping his throat. His fingers are digging into the cup, the boiling heat singing his palms. Watari looks undisturbed, the perfectly poised expression of a man unphased.

“I have changed my mind. This… understanding is concerning. For the both of you.”

“Last night was an anomaly. We aren’t going to-”

“Not just about whatever the both of you were doing in Kugenuma last night.” Watari interrupted, coarsely, “Though that is part of it. L would never have done something like that- gallivanting randomly. Away from his work. It is unlike him.” Watari’s hard stare met Light’s eyes.

“There is nothing to be concerned about. How can you even be sure this has some correlation to me?” Light said, tone just as formidable. The previous faux-politeness had completely gone. Watari is far from the obedient, silent man he had grown accustomed to, a mute presence in a room under L’s orders.

“Light Yagami. I cannot tell you to stop working with L. Though I would wish it so, I cannot even tell you to distance himself from him. All I can wish is that both of you solve this case as fast as possible.” Watari’s voice sinks lower, “So you can return to your normal life, and L to his.”

The air is bitter, tinged with aggravation, and Light settles himself into it. His hands remain steeled on his cup, his body tense, high strung as if about to snap.

He doesn’t snap. He doesn’t shout, or get angry at the other man. He nods, pretends he understands, and finishes his drink. The one thing that soothes him is the knowledge that, quite soon, Watari will be shedding tears over L’s dead, dead, body.

*

Two days left. Two days left. Two days left. Today, tomorrow, and then the end shall fall upon
L, upon justice, upon them both.

*

As normal, the next day, Light appears back at the building. The conversation with Watari still sticks to his skin, making him unusually aggravated. Watari’s opinion on his and L’s tie to one another left him slightly uncomfortable. He had turned over the man’s words again and again in his head as he can laid in bed, listening to the ever growing knocking in the back of his skull, trying to drown it out.

When he walks into the building in the morning, the sky is cloudy and murky beyond the windows. It had began to spit, droplets of water falling from the sky into his face, his hair, as Light had walked to the entrance, ruining the composition of his look.

“Light.” His father greeted him as he joined the room, the rest of the team adding their welcomes. Soichiro was unhappy with him following the incident the night prior. His mother was as well, both of them up in arms about rest and ‘why didn’t you tell us?’ and ‘being irresponsible’. A lecture, like a child, and Light hadn’t listened to a word of it. He did apologise to Sayu, though, later on in the night. He had caused her undue stress over the past few days.

“L isn’t here.” His father said, looking around them with his lips pursed.

Light’s mood, if possible, dropped further. L still wasn’t here?

“Do you think its possible that… well, it has something to do with the 13 days running out soon?” Soichiro continued, quieter, so only the two of them could hear it.

Light nodded slightly. Light was thinking so, as well. Watari having been left behind whilst L was gone worsened his fears that somehow, out of the blue, L would upstage his plans once again.

But he couldn’t, Light reminded himself. Rem agreed to kill him. And she will. It was just his newfound paranoia speaking. Death was inescapable.

“Maybe he isn’t as confident in not dying as we thought.” Light said, acting solemn.

His father stilled, and looked mildly concerned. “The world’s best detective. Could he really have just killed himself knowingly?” Soichiro shook his head, as if dispelling the doubt from his mind. “L knows what he’s doing. I am sure of it.”

Light nodded, as if agreeing, that yes, in fact, L knew all. He stared around the room, the backs and faces of the other people in the task force, and realised, quite quickly, that without L here, he didn’t feel as if he was needed. That there was a purpose to him being there. Suddenly, he wanted to return home.

His father asked what they should be doing. Without L, Light took on a natural position filling in, and he assigned some arbitrary task that only served to direct them away from himself and Misa.

He spent the next few hours pouring over lists and sheets of paper, not truly paying attention to any of it, teeth gritted until his jaw began to ache.

They spent three hours doing accomplishing nothing until Light told them to go home. Neither L, nor Watari, made an entrance.

He stepped back out into the rush of Tokyo, the darkening clouds worsening above him. Distant rumbles shook the sky.

The world was splitting apart.

Light did not see L on the second-to-last day of his due death date.

*

But he did on the last.

He woke up to the sound of a grumbling sky, to rain battering down upon the streets of Tokyo. He moved swiftly between the crowds of people, weaving a path for himself, shielding his head from the oncoming onslaught of rain. He dived and ducked as if it burned.

When he finally stepped back into the building, droplets spitting out behind him as he walked, there was a heavy desperation pushing at his insides. A growing creature that would burst if he found L gone again. A thing that was writhing, too alive to be concealed, and he walked in anticipating the worst.

Since when had he began to want to see L?

When he saw him, the lanky, folded form in that metal chair, feet propped up beneath him, Light began to breathe again. The creature became meek, and quietened, and hid. L was here. He would see L on his last full day alive.

Light walked towards him silently, footsteps announcing his entrance. L was turned away from him, and then slowly, leisurely, twisted his chair to face Light. His face gave nothing away. Just as impassive, empty, as it was when Light had first seen him.

They reached a standstill when Light stood before him, fingers twitching.

The room is utterly silent except for the smashing of rain on the windows, and the dripping of Light’s hair on the tiles of the floor. The strands plaster themselves to his head uncomfortably. He stares at L for a short while, absorbing his presence once again.

“Hello, Light.” L says deeply, his legs drawn up to his chest. He looks Light up and down for a brief second, and when he would usually quirk his lips at the sight of Light drenched in water, there is nothing. The computers and panels are turned off, as are most of the lights, leaving the room weakly lit.

“L.” Is Light’s reply.

Drip. Drip. In such a large room, the space between them seems to be infinite.

“Where were you?”

“Sorting out some affairs.” L replies instantly, frozen in his chair. His black hair patterns his face, edging down his nape, dry, unlike Light’s.

“For quite a while.”

“Not even two days.”

“Where is everyone?” Light feels the silence settle heavily. The absence of the chatter, the background shuffling of papers, the low humming of computers, makes the room seem empty.

“I sent them home for the day.” L says smoothly, a fingertip still of the armrest of his chair.

Light doesn’t answer immediately. He begins to take off his soaked jacket, and throws it over the back of one of the other chairs. Slowly, unhurriedly, he makes the journey towards L.

Silently, Light sits in his chair, in their familiar positions, to the left of L. He crosses his legs, but does not have it within him to lean back and relax as L has done. A slow coiling tightens in the recesses of his brain, the same that had reappeared once he had stepped foot back in Tokyo.

Kugenuma had fresh, salty air, that revived him. The capital was filled with smoke, the recycled oxygen of everyone else. It was heavier, sticky, like tar.

“Watari had a few things to say to me yesterday, when you weren’t here.” Light says, matter of factly. He emphasises the fact that L had been gone.

L is even more unreactive than usual. He remains a comatose copy of himself, but replies with slow and blank speech; “Did he really?”

Light gives him a slant look. “He did.”

An invitation to ask him to elaborate, and yet L sits still, eyes train on Light. Light can’t read any sort of emotion off his face. He begins to feel pinpricks of unease scatter up his neck. He doesn’t like the dead space that L is allowing.

“He surprised me.” Light adds.

“He can be curt when he wants to be.”

“Has he said the same thing to you?” Light queries, prodding at the intricacies between L’s and Watari’s relationship. He shifts in his chair, closer to L, trying to find something within.

“Depends. I don’t know what you discussed.” L does not give. His eyes are dark pools, bottomless pits that Light is attempting to fish something out of, only to come up empty. They sit in a sullen, uneasy silence. It was almost as if L was practicing for being dead.

“He said you were… absorbed. In me.”

Drip. His jeans stick uncomfortably to his thighs. He watches, stares, looks for a hook to catch onto, a bait to pull.

Nothing gives. L hardly twitches. His response is flat, devoid and sucked dry of everything; “Kira has interested me.”

“He used ‘absorbed’”

“Watari does not understand as much as he thinks he does.”

“I agree.”

“So you did not agree with him?” L says passively, emptily.

Light pauses. He takes a look at L, then shifts his gaze to other parts of the room, to make sure he hadn’t walked into some sort of trap. L, desperate, with 24 hours left of his life, planning an ambush or a last-ditch attempt at a confession, arresting him or locking him up in a last effort to catch Kira.

He answers with; “Are you sure you’re not invested in the Death Note instead?”

Light wishes he could have seen L write the second name. He wishes he had witnessed L giving in and crumbling just a fraction. But instead, he had spent that time lying in a hospital bed, with his family and doctors fluttering around him.

“About that,” L begins, “I have given up.”

All of a sudden, Light’s mouth goes dry. His fingers bunch up and dig into the armrests, which he then consciously releases. Theres a small tsunami of blood rushing into his ears as he quickly processes what this means, what the consequences could be, what L’s trying to do (bluffing? Most likely. L would definitely not just give up on a goal he’s killed two people for, risked his life for. He really wanted to get the same effect, to reach whatever physical reaction he’s waiting for, L would forcibly latch onto it to the very end).

So why was he saying he was giving up? Unless he was starting to doubt himself now, barely a day before his death? Was he looking for sympathy?

“What changed?” Light says slowly.

L’s chest rises and falls steadily. Light can see none of the tell-tale signs of lying on him- then again, L would know them, and not be stupid enough to express any of them anyway.

“I have come to the conclusion that killing death-row criminals, in any capacity, will not create any sense of guilt from within me.” L says dully, hollow.

“So what was the point?” Light pushes, and he realises that L made a huge mistake in using the Death Note. So big, it had won Light the game.

L had not gotten the results he wanted. Because of his own, entitled and guiltless self, L had not achieved the thing he had used the Death Note for. Where Light had been praying to be rid of the wings, L had been clamouring for them.

He was trying to seem affronted, and in a way he still was. L surrendering was… conflicting. A small buzz was awakening in his lower stomach as the situation sunk in.

“There is a point.” L answered, “It is to prove that the rule in the Note is fake.”

“But you didn’t get a reaction.”

“Like I said, I have realised I would not likely have strong feelings of remorse killing petty criminals that are due to die anyway. And murdering innocents and actually becoming Kira is not an option.”

Becoming Kira.His breath instantly left Light’s lungs. L surely would have been a hair away from killing a civilian and becoming Kira.The idea was so flooring his throat closed up for a second, the possibility entrancing. The fact that he had gotten L here, backed up against the edge of falling down a pit he would not be able to crawl out of, was one of Light’s proudest, sweetest moments.

“It’s hard to believe you’re just… giving up with it.” Seeing the words fall out of L’s mouth just felt wrong.

L remained unchanged, as if resigned to it. Light gathered tried to ascertain whether it was this surrender that had made him so distant, downcast.

“There is no other way.” L simply said, and Light felt a slow spread of satisfaction and something else pierce through his stomach.

At that moment, the storm outside picked up in force, the wind rioting, rain smashing down on the windows. The world was broiling, and a sharp crack of lightning conjoined with the rumbling of thunder broke their silence. They didn’t speak momentarily as they listened to the mutiny happening outside the building.

The world was providing them an encore.

“Is Rem somewhere here?” Light asked. Another reason he had come was to make sure him and Rem were still in agreement about tomorrow. He did not want to find out that she had suddenly changed her mind.

He had, in that scenario, thought up some contingency plans. Unlikely, but in the case the Shinigami got indecisive, he had ideas to make the threat to Misa’s life more imminent. One of these ideas included leaving a trail to Misa that would land her on death row. Another included a gun.

Everything was going to be put in place for L to die tomorrow.

“It’s been leaving often.” L supplied, looking absentmindedly around the room, as if the Shinigami would appear at any moment, “Perhaps gods of death do not have to stay within radius of the Death Note at all.”

Looking at him now, Light found it hard to imagine tomorrow. L was lifeless in his present state as he was, but a corpse, a braindead L, would surely be a blasphemy.

“L,” Light begins, brain ticking, “Have you considered the possibility of your death tomorrow?”

L’s gaze shifts minutely. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And?”

“You said that you would consider me as a successor. Once.”

L stares at him for longer than necessary. It is a silence that L had allowed to let puncture the conversation.

“In the case of my death tomorrow, you may continue as my successor.” Each word falls heavy upon them, cutting through the air like a knife.

Light nods, smiles slightly, lips turning upwards. The rain batters down on the rooftop above them both, and Light turns his head towards it, as if the sky were truly there.

“I wonder if the wings are restricted to purely negative emotion. Because if they could be summoned from complete satisfaction, I have a feeling they’d be here by now, Light.” L drawls, tone still flat, the mirth gone from his words.

Light loosens a breath, reigning in whatever uncontrollable glow he had let escape from his face, turning back to L. Unfortunately, it was hard to control the delight at everything being handed to him on a silver platter. He’d achieved what he had set out to do- get close to L, befriend him, gain his trust, so he would pass him the rope he’d hang himself with.

“I am glad you see that I’m worthy.”

“Don’t get too happy. This is a hypothetical.”

“Of course.”

L looks at him knowingly, piercingly, as if he could read the thoughts from Light’s head.

Light found it hard to look back. On one side, Kira was elated, serotonin-high from being so close to killing his biggest obstacle. On the other, there was whispering voice in his ear, sneaking in tendrils of doubt.

It would be a waste. He could help you. You will need entertainment. It will be boring. You want the company. He knows. He knows you. He can see them. It will hurt. You will mourn.

The feeling of the Death Note within also coiled at the thought of L dying. It would be content. This would be another crumbling of Light’s, another step into the descent of immorality. It was one thing to kill faceless, unknowable criminals. It was another to kill… L.

The more he said the words, the less real they became.

“You should go home, Light.”

L breaks the pause abruptly. Light reels, surprised by his suggestion.

“No,” He shakes his head, cogs turning in his head as to why L was wanting him gone, “I’m staying.”

He may have said it a little too forcefully out of instinct, and L raised in eyebrows in question. He then began to slide off the chair, pushing himself off the armrests, his gangly limbs unfolding and pinning him up as he stood.

“I can hear it.” He said, and without further explanation, L began to walk away from him, walking briskly down the hallway without a second glance.

Slightly bewildered, Light watched for a few seconds. He did not suspect a trap.

He got up in a similar fashion and followed him.

*

The rain is threatening to cave the roof in as Light trails after him, their joint footsteps sounding on the floor. L walks in front of him leisurely, calmly, winding them down hallways.

“What is it?” Light asks, straightening his rumpled shirt, widening his footsteps to meet L’s.

L doesn’t respond. He continues, blurry-eyed, trance-like, walking past the endless doors of the gigantic building, right to the very end, where a singular grey door meets them. L’s silence is ominous and uncomfortable. He seems weak, Light thinks. As if already dead.

“Where are you going?” Light tries again, walking closely behind, the tension starting to rise. The paranoia begins to set in slightly, the uneasiness, the strange ways of L known to him at this point but so unpredictable all the same.

Once again, L lets the question die out in silence as he pushes down the handle on the door, walking them into an echoing, empty stairwell. L pushes onwards, barely stopping to think, as he takes the stairs upwards, undeterred. Here, the thunder pulses, getting closer by the second, and as Light warily follows, he has the feeling L is leading him further and further into the sky, into the heart of the storm.

They ascend, Light’s hand trailing along the banister, L’s in his pockets.

“L. Where are we going?” Light bites out, frustrated, and he has half the mind to stop here and turn back. He does not want to led on and manoeuvred by L.

But he is, and is willingly allowing it to happen. He cannot break it off, cannot imagine leaving now, allowing L to have another days (his last days) solitude. He was resolute that he was staying.

The small sacrifice in his pride brought an uncomfortable feeling to settle in his stomach. Here he was, still being stringed along. L did not even have to utter words. A few days devoid of L’s presence made him too eager to capture it again, and keep it with him, as if he could preserve it in a jar.

You’re following after him. Willingly. How will you be able to carry on without him there at all?

They go up numerous flights of stairs, the rain getting progressively louder, and then they reach the end. The stairwell cuts off, leaving just another grey door. They had reached the top of the building.

“We’re on the roof.” Light says, mostly to himself out of surprise.

“Yes.” L finally says, eyes black, and pauses just outside the door. He places a bony hand on the handle, and before pushing it open, he turns to Light with a beckoning; “Come on, Light.”

L opens the door, and without hesitance walks into the thundering rain.

Light cuts his steps short immediately, staying within the last confines of the building. He holds the door open, watching L lazily walk through the mayhem, the wind tearing at his clothes, black hair swaying wildly behind him.

He is transfixed for a short second, unable and unwilling to go out. At first it was the instinctual and slightly embarrassing ‘I don’t want to get wet’. Then it was a matter of self-respect. Did staying here with L really matter so much, that he would step into a storm just to follow the man with his crazed, childish whims?

His hand tightens on the door handle, his anger rising. There is a rising current that had been steadily filling with water within him as they had walked up the stairs, each step adding fuel to the fire.

His frustration is rising. L seems empty, hollow, unbothered.

24 hours. And he will be dead. Surely. I do not have to follow the whims of a dying man.

You will mourn him.

You shouldn’t. Stay back. Do not make memories to remember him by. It will not serve you.

He was and will be the only person who saw it all. He knows you.

Light is pulled along on a string, his feet moving of their own accord. His hand drops from the handle, and here he is, Light Yagami, on the roof of the building him and L had shared for months, the closest he can get to the sky.

There is a small riot internally that threatens to match the one outside, with the rage-fuelled rain and pulsing wind, pushing and grabbing at his skin. He pushes through it, walking quickly through the sheets of rain falling upon him, a hand raised to try and shield his eyes.

Immediately, the cold rain sinks into his clothes and sticks to him like a second layer of skin, any warmth evaporating into the storm. He grits his teeth, and quickens his pace to catch L, who had stopped.

He was stood near the edge of the building, hand leisurely placed in his pockets, hardly flinching at the storm threatening them both. His black hair was now plastered to his face, his neck, and the loose white shirt was now almost translucent. L stood with water droplets trailing down his face, eyes looking blearily out into the horizon, fixed on some unfamiliar point that he was being drawn into.

When Light finally reached him, he had wanted to shout something to ridicule him, question again what the fuck he was doing, spit out the irritation that was bubbling within. As soon as he was about to open his mouth, L interrupted him with the same glassy, emotionless tone;

“Watari is right.”

Light flicks wet strands of hair away from his eyes with his hand. He can barely hear L’s low tone in the smattering of rain upon the concrete.

“You said he doesn’t understand-”

“Then maybe in this instance he sees something I didn’t before.” L cuts in, and takes a sparing glance at Light, “I’ve just witnessed it for myself.”

Light fights the urge to scowl, spit harsh words back at him, but the scene was too fragile to argue. He didn’t want to argue with L, even if he was making it too easy to do so.

He was stood at the edge of the rooftop, a ghost-like L at his side, head reeling in the pouring rain around them. The Death Note itched, scratched his insides impatiently, full of discontent. He did not feel safe.

“What are we doing here, L?” Light pressures, looking out into the city, where L’s gaze was trained.

“I can hear the bell.” L says, matter of factly.

Light pauses for a second, waits, trying to find a bell amidst the harsh sounds of the rain surrounding them.

“I don’t hear anything.” Was L serious?

“It’s very distracting.” L replies in monotone, eyes and mind drawn to something Light couldn’t see. It was like being with the outer shell of a person, whilst L himself was somewhere hidden.

“Cut it out. Let’s go back inside.” How had he ended up here, being strung along by L to the lip of the rooftop, chasing phantom sounds and mirages?

“Tell me, Light, from the moment you were born, has there ever been a point where you’d actually told the truth?”

It isn’t even said bitterly, or particularly harshly, barely a threat. L remains looking hazy, far-off. Light has the feeling it is more of a genuine question than an attack on him. It is cutting still the same, the lies and blockades and fake screens coming off bit by bit.

“Find me one person in the world whos never had to tell a lie.” Had to. He had to lie, to keep Kira safe. His reply is a smoke screen, a constructed evasion.

L blinks slowly, water trailing down his neck, the rain soaking them both to the bone. Goosebumps rise on Light’s skin, small shivers beginning to skitter down his back, the cold sinking in deep and settling there. Piece by piece, he was being stripped bare. From warmth, familiarity, safety. Their joint limbo where they had spent the night in Kugenuma, melting off with the rain.

“I didn’t ask if you’d ever lied. I asked if you had ever told the truth.”

Light’s mouth goes dry. There is tension spinning around them in webs, his stomach flipping, the itching becoming more like scrapes along his insides.

“Yes. Of course I have told the truth.”

L breaks his stare with the horizon, the black clouds draped above them heavily. The sky is dark, the swirling mass blocking out most of the sunlight.

L’s eyes meet his. Holds them.

“Tell me something true, Light.”

A taunt. A beckoning. A threat.

A million suggestions wind in his head. Truths, lies, refusals, half-truths and confessions, evasions and deceptions. The wind and rain whirls against him, as if ushering him onwards, coaxing the words out of his mouth.

“I wanted to stay there longer.” Light barely makes out, weakly, and its such a pitiful admission. It isn’t something monumental. It doesn’t change anything. It isn’t a confession or something to incriminate him, but it is a truth. A truth that he hoped L would understand.

L looks at him passively, no reaction evident on his face. If he was surprised, or didn’t believe him, he didn’t show it.

“I thought we agreed that we couldn’t have stayed there.” L answers questioningly.

“Anywhere, then. We could’ve gone anywhere. Away from the Death Note.” Light doesn’t know where the words are coming from, only that once one truth slips through the cracks of his exterior, more threaten to come tumbling out. The thundering above them, the rising desperation between them, the ticking clock, all ease his tongue, and he finds himself losing the threads that are keeping him and L together.

Threads he was going to cut too soon.

“We could’ve.” Is all L says.

“We could’ve.” Light repeats.

A heartbeat passes, filled with battering rain and rushing wind.

“If you succeed me,” L says, which Light knows is code for if I die, “It’ll be lonely, won’t it?”

Light, raw off the back of his previous truths, shivering from the cold, stops himself from answering instantly. He then sees the drawn, morose look on L’s face, pointed towards the towering buildings of Tokyo.

“Yes.”

L turns to him fully, his soaked-through clothes fully visible to Light now. L’s arms hang loosely by his sides, his skin seeming even more pale, the cold air leaving him even more pallid. Light sketches him into his memory, burns him into his brain, creating memories he would refuse to let go of.

“If you succeed me, you should get as far away from Tokyo as possible.”

“Huh?”

L looks at him pointedly. “It would be for the best.”

“To get away from the effects of the Death Note?”

For the first time that evening, L’s exterior mask cracks. His face edges into a cold, crooked smile, the corner of his lips turning upwards bitterly. It isn’t a smile of real mirth, empty and glacial.

“Isn’t that funny?” L says, “I’ll do anything to get a reaction to the Death Note.” He looks at Light, the normally perfect appearance reduced down to drenched clothes and dripping hair, “Whilst here I am, telling you to get away from it.”

Light takes a step closer to him, crossing the minute gap between their rain-soaked bodies, reaching the lip of the barrier on the rooftop where L was stood. There is an internal whirlpool threatening to pull him in. It is hitting him now, that this is one of his last conversations with L. He will be allowing this, this, to be one of their last exchanges. On a rooftop, enduring a storm, splitting truths between each other.

“You’ll do anything? For this?”

L’s eyes are swirling, the inky black twisting, and Light goes back on his earlier thoughts. He looks at them; how could he have ever thought they weren’t alive?

“I need to know, Light.” Iced words, and Light feels as if the threads he thought were in his grip were suddenly unspooling, running away from him.

L is still alive. So alive. There is still something writhing within, something Light underestimated.

“How can it be that important?” He exasperates, hardly understanding, a clawed hand puncturing his insides with want, fear, self-preservation.

“It is. To me.” L voices, the words sounding foreign, dripping abnormality.

The sky rumbles, lightning clashes in the distance, and Light looks at L, into the murky darkness, the fight and determination still within him, how close he is to it, and realises just how unsafe he feels.

The air is bubbling inside his lungs, the last tendrils of heat off L winding towards him. Light hadn’t realised that the space between them had disappeared so quickly. L is in front of him, too close. Light can see the spirals of wet hair on his forehead, the dripping eyelashes, every inch of his bone-white skin, every drop of rain that trails down to the cupids bow of his lips.

Things hang in the air between them, like it had a few nights before. But here there is no alcohol, no forced substance, to soften the blow. Instead of inebriated haziness, everything is incredibly clear, every detail captured on his face, standing out sharply to Light.

The moment of suspension is shattered when those rain-drenched lips open.

“Here is a truth of mine, Light. I am afraid.”

Without warning, L forces a vice-like grip on Light’s shoulder blades, the previously delicate hands turning into metal claws, nails digging into his flesh.

One second, Light is stealing glances at L, and at the night time Tokyo skyline.

The next, he sees L in front of him, a breath away, his hands restraining his movement, wild, and very, very alive.

L pushes him strongly, the power hidden beneath the thin frame showing itself again, and sweeps him off his feet, forces Light back.

He reels backwards, body thrown forcefully over the edge of the precipice, the very lip of the rooftop.

L ensures the guardrail does not save him.

Light careens past it. In the blink of an eye, both L and Tokyo disappears. All that is left is the view of the churning, thunderous sky above him, and feeling of he wind rushing past him, rising up to greet him as he plummets downwards.

Light falls.

Chapter Text

Backward we traveled to reclaim the day
Before we fell, like Icarus, undone;
All we find are altars in decay
And profane words scrawled black across the sun.

- Sylvia Plath

*

And he keeps on falling.

Immediately, the air is punched from his lungs in a hurricane of rushing wind, snatched from his throat with cold, icy hands. His brain short circuits, his vision blurring, the feeling of nothing beneath him or around him foreign and horrifying. L is there, the bony skeleton watching over on the lip of the rooftop, a guardian angel, a demonic force.

It is when he disappears, when the world blots him out with anger and darkness, when the tether between them snaps with the further Light falls, does his brain begin to work again. It clears itself from the initial shock, the disbelief. It then it fully comprehends what is happening, what it is seeing, the merging mass of Tokyo’s buildings flying past him at record speed.

His mouth opens, and lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

The panic sets in an instant, floods his mind and every inch of his falling, fumbling body, limp and uncontrollable. The air pushes at it, spins around him maddeningly. He is slicing through the rain, conscious as he drops further and further downwards, scrambling for safety, but there is no escape.

His nails rake at empty space, cleave through nothing, because there is nothing to soften his fall, no saviour to rescue him. He screams again, and again, and doesn’t stop, releases a constant series of ragged, hoarse cries. Light Yagami feels the world spinning, his world becoming a blurry haze too far for him to reach. It falls away from his fingertips, outstretched around him, lost, looking for something to grapple onto.

The storm screams in his ears, drowns him in icy water. All he can see is whats above; the dark, thick clouds hanging above him, the sky that he was falling away from, had been abandoned by, dropped by an invisible god. It is then he begins to beg, with panic, with hysteria, his own tears mixing with the rain. Light Yagami cries in terror, feels his own body seizing up in the knowledge of what is going to happen to him.

He is falling to the ground. He is going to die. He is going to die.

The thought is inconceivable. He is a god. He had made himself God. Gods do not die. Gods live on forever, are omnipotent, immortal. He can’t die. Gods do not die by murder, or falling, or onto dirty alleyways behind buildings. Gods cannot lay broken and shattered, smashed into a pavement, the one moving ever closer to him by the second.

Whilst plunging downwards, horror setting into every bone in his body, Light Yagami realises he is going to die. That after everything, after all of the Death Note’s sweet promises, he is still mortal.

He is going to die.

He will experience the same fate he had set upon countless others. The everlasting end, the nonexistence that terrified him. It ate at his core, tore bloody shreds into everything he thought he had achieved. It infuriated him, and as Light Yagami begged to an unspeaking sky, amongst all the other clashing emotions of panic and frenzy, he is angry.

Angry that he had failed, that with everything, all his preparation, all his plans, all his want and ambition, he was falling.

Somewhere, still alive, was some part of him that was the hungry Kira, the one infected by the Death Note. Somewhere within was the vigilante, the hero, the person who had held a pen and therefore the world at his fingertips, and he was still high off of it. He still had wanted, yearned for power, even when it was killing him. There still existed an ideal of a perfect, cleansed world, free of criminal filth. That him still existed, the him raging and broiling inside of him at the injustice of it all.

But there were also others. There was a student, a teenager, that had spent night and day, sacrificed his own life, to wanting to be the best. There was a son, the prized jewel in his family, the son that his parents pointed towards and expected the world from, watching over his every move.

There was a brother that would shelter his sister as best as he could, for the short period that was his life.

There was a Light Yagami that had been bored, one that had been floating along life, needing something to interest him before his only option for intrigue was what lay beyond the grave. Somewhere, still, there was the Light Yagami that had coincidentally looked out of the window that day, seen the Death Note fall to the ground, and had picked it up by pure chance.

There were pieces of himself that were the most silent, the most hidden. Ones that he cowered from, and never let them see the surface. Never acknowledged their presence, though they were nestled in the back of his mind.

He was falling, spinning, with his eyes screwed shut, swimming in an empty blackness. Time did not exist. The wind whirring in his ears gave way to nothingness, a static that buzzed in the background. The air encircled him, as if keeping him afloat.

Here, in the murky pre-death, Light sought after that buried piece, for the only comfort he could give himself. His brain gave him salvation, the silence.

Folding beach waves. The rush of warmth and adrenaline. Sand in my hair.

He brought forth an existence that had survived upon lingering glances, fed off delicate touches, grew under moonlit eyes. Had thrived with time next to L. It had flourished, spun into webs. It had allowed for acceptance. It had allowed for normalcy, routines, and familiarity. It had allowed for getting close, edging the gap, forgetting boundaries. It had encouraged friendliness, care, and indulgences.

There was a part of himself that had become reliant on L for survival, that accepted him, intrigued him, acknowledged him as equal and nothing less.

In the inky mess behind his eyelids, his freezing body hitting multiple stories of air, Light realised he had allowed for genuine human connection, for one of the first times in his life.

And it had killed him.

*

Flickering lamposts. An emptying glass bottle. Evening breeze. Seeking warmth.

Light had read somewhere, that in the moments before death, there existed a phenomenon that few could explain. Many near-death experiences described the most vivid dreams; real life visions, in the seconds they were in immense pain, or about to reach death. Their brains conjured up comfort, peace, to aid them into the afterlife.

Not knowing where we are. Laughing without knowing it. Walking side by side.

The beautiful image, the perfect mirage, painted itself out in front of him. He could smell the sea, feel the wind, imagine the hazy lull that that calmed him.

Crescent moon. Midnight. Staring for too long. Thinking.

The memory was untainted, prized, the getaway from the Death Note and death and everything in between.

Doubting. Not knowing. Opening doors. Sleeping alone.

He repeats his own footsteps, holds onto the memory that was keeping him afloat with desperate hands, holds onto L.

Light knew he was going to die. It was painful and horrifying, utterly immobilizing, tearing apart his very core. Even the facade wasn’t enough. Because through it, through a tiny crack in the vision, came a single thought.

You were going to do this to L. Tomorrow. Kill him. Make him feel this pain.

A single thought that halted time. That prompted a tidal wave that smashed into him, knocked him off balance.

The mirage collapsed.

*

He stopped falling.

He stops entirely, frozen in the air. He feels his body shift, head spinning from whiplash.

Light opens his tear-streaked eyes. Below him, too close, are the dirty, rain-smattered bricks that make up Tokyo’s back streets and alleyways, the street he was breaths away from hitting.

He was suspended for a few more seconds, the world screeching to a halt around him, stone-cold and trembling, mind reeling from shock and pain. His insides burn with his own sin, guilt twisting into large knots.

A quick movement catches his eye. He blinks, trying to focus, his hair hanging into his face. He finds the motion.

A thick, obsidian feather flurries wildly in the rain, barely visible, seizuring in the heavy rainfall and spinning in the wind. It panics and shakes, trying to reach the ground, its broad spindles pronounced and dense, the sharp spine knife-like.

Light Yagami watches it fall to the cobbled bricks without a word.

He can feel the disconnect between himself and the foreign body. There was a gaping wound in his back, punctures where the darkness spilt out into large fans at either side of him. It was there.

Under the constant bruising of the rain, the wings screech as Light moves them, make them come alive.The hundreds of tiny bones and joints, the network of nerves and muscles under the carpet of pointed feathers, all join in tandem, create an orchestra that sing as one choir.

Instinctually, desperately, Light Yagami pulls himself upwards, cutting into the air.

The wings spread out behind him, splitting rain and wind, black silken strands fraying out at his sides. He trembles, body lit like an exposed wire, but the wings hold him, keep him balanced. The muscles in his back scream, there threads splintering under the strain of holding them up- the fully developed set of wings that created a silken sea at his shoulderblades.

He pushes upwards, arms grappling to reach higher, teeth grinding into each other with stress and pain. The world halves around him, and he can see the reflection of the wings in the building, distorted with the rain. He is distorted, a thing unlike himself, a monster, a true disfigurement of society.

He was no god. A god could not look like this. A god could not be clawing his way through the rain.

A god could not feel so unforgivable, so damned.

The higher he climbs, the more unreal it feels. He cannot decipher his own feelings, knotted and tangled as they are, and some part of him is still screaming out that he is going to die. One of those pieces of himself, the one awaiting death, was still down at the bottom of that alley, beside the abandoned feather, floating in a puddle.

But he was still alive, flying, the wings beating forceful blows into the air, forcing him upwards repeatedly. Each push was like a barbed whip on his back muscles, but the action came like second nature; the wings were performing beautifully, an unstoppable power behind his very flesh.

The rain poured down directly into his eyes, and his chest was still heaving, body electrified with adrenaline and shock. Light Yagami sobbed, pulsing further and further away from death, and yet he could barely register relief or joy, because all that was pushing down on him was disgrace.

It was knowing he had stitched himself to someone, involuntarily or not. And had awaited this very end for them. Was going to allow them the very same terror, the frenzy of dread and hysteria, before an infinite sentence to death.

He hurt, he raged, he cried into the sky, all the while compelling his body to continue, to not allow him to fall lifelessly into a dark ditch. Light’s heart raced, brain flailing, focused on self preservation. The wings felt heavier and heavier as the rain soaked into them, becoming almost immovable, and yet he forced them to, ignoring the raking pain in every inch of his back.

If falling felt like years were passing, then dragging himself back upwards felt like lifetimes.

Until finally, without recognition, Light’s feet rammed into the lip of the stone rooftop, wingtips brushing at the barrier, the sky a lot closer than before.

At the sight of the rooftop, he stumbled, collapsing over the barrier, his body numb and drained of all strength. He drew the wings inwards haphazardly, allowing himself to fall to the concrete ground of the rooftop, surrendering to the storm still thundering above, pinning his body to the ground. He could not move, immobile, the feathered beasts lying flat behind him, last sobs and heaves leaving his lungs.

He was back to looking directly upwards, at the sky. And he thought of that idiotic myth, the story L had given to him, the pages Light had reread and thought about over days and weeks.

He could not cry any more. He could not scream. Death had passed before his eyes, showed its damning, haunting eyes, and Light would never be able to walk away from it unscathed.

Lost in trying to live again, in his own pounding heartbeat and struggling lungs. He thought about not dying, staring blearily into the broiling sky, the passing clouds above. He thought about a certain death, not his, the one he had signed away.

He did not hear the footsteps, the sharp intake of air, or the hesitancy.

It was him, in the end. The guilt of killing him. It saved me.

Past the rain and the bleariness in his eyes, as if on cue, L steps into Light’s line of sight.

Soaked to the bone, utterly bedraggled, black hair stuck like a carpet to his nape and face, eyes ringed with bruises, and yet Light felt immediate relief. As if the tether between them that had nearly snapped, stretched so thin just moments ago, had already begun to heal.

The relief lasted a mere few seconds, where Light looked at him anew, with sin crawling at his back. It was quickly overtaken by blistering, red-hot anger, which welled inside of him like a source of life.

“You-you-” Light rasped painfully, barely remembering words, the solid ground beneath him feeling unreal, another dream gifted to him by his brain.

“You- nearly- killed me.” He choked out, the dry words falling out of cracked lips, his voice quiet and hoarse. His body trembled on the cold stone, wings twitching behind him.

L looked white, nearly transparent, the most ghost-like Light had ever seen him. His whole face was one etched in bewilderment, as if he couldn’t understand what was very clearly in front of him, shivering uncontrollably at his feet.

“Light.” He said, and then kneeled down next to Light’s head, knees pressed into the rocky concrete. Those black eyes swirled, no doubt hatching, plotting with that brilliant mind of his, and Light could barely function, nevermind think.

“You-you.” He repeated, stuck on the word, his attempts to speak lodging in his throat. He was blindly angry, fuelled with pain from all corners, in all unimaginable ways.

“How could- how could you do that- to me?” Light finally grit out, his voice escalating with fury and disbelief, the sight of the bricks before him still an echo before his eyes.

L, seemingly disorientated, looked down at Light before him, and his brunet hair that was spilling into wet puddles. He was seeing Light at his most pathetic, vulnerable, utterly wrecked and humiliated.

“How? Why?” Light beseeched, the desperation sinking through, rainwater trailing down his lips as he cried, “How- could you kill me?”

The faint pause was deafening, and at first Light thought he had missed L’s reply through the rushing of rain, but when it came it was even more painful than the absence of a reply at all.

“Kill you? You mean, exactly what you’re going to do to me tomorrow, Light?”

In the moment, it was as if the world turned on its head. Light reeled, not being able to cope with new information when his thought process was still plagued with panic. He could not think, or consider what this meant. He spluttered, water filling his mouth, coughing.

Tomorrow. He knows. Killing him tomorrow. He knows.

Half-thoughts, barely corrigible, formed in his head. L remained still after ripping off the bandage that was the hushed and hidden truth between them, quickly and easily enough to completely throw Light off.

There was nothing to say. He could not deny it any longer; it would be an insult to cower. He could only let the words die in his raw throat, begging for the entire day, so full of potential and hope, to be wiped clean. For him to wake up form his nightmare, and start it anew.

The rain burns him as if it were acid, piercing down to his skin now that his deception had been ripped off.

L does not allow for the silence to continue, but speaks, as if to himself.

“I mean it when I say you are truly fascinating, Light Yagami.” The whisper was barely audible, as Light saw L’s eyes rake past him, onto the flattened wings soaked with rainwater, slick and smooth. Those eyes; filled with a sort of jealousy, want, that Light could not decipher. His eyes drift away, then meet Light’s once again, softer, and sullen.

“Let’s go inside, Light.” He says quietly.

Light wants to argue, still paralysed, his body drained of all energy. He felt as if he could sleep here, slip into a coma and hopefully never wake up. He does not want to face an L that has knowledge of his own death. He does not want to face L at all, not when every second the thought of him dead splays out horribly before his mind.

The internal conflict, the war between Light and Kira, Light and all his pieces, was his own downfall.

He shakes his head, exhaling shakily, freezing cold upon the concrete. L does not follow.

Those ribbed hands reach out to curl behind Light’s head, to lift him up, another around his shoulders, trying to avoid the splurge of black feathers coming from his back.

“No-” Light cuts out, his muscles cramping, and yet he is dragged upwards from the ground by L, forced to sit up. He is almost comatose. L could stab him now, punch him, kill him, and Light would be able to do nothing. If L truly wanted to kill him, first, then now was the best time to do so.

And yet he wasn’t. Instead, L was calmly, unhurriedly, placing a lanky arm beneath Light’s shoulder’s, and placing Light’s own strewn across his.

L knows I am going to kill him. And yet. And yet he’s-

L tries to haul him upwards, giving his body over to Light for stability, but Light is too tired, and his legs feel like matchsticks. The added weight of the dampened wings, as if tonnes of bricks were stacked upon him, doesn’t help, and he fights to stay upright and not go collapsing back to the floor. Light stumbles, falls against L’s side, head lolling onto L’s shoulders. L’s soaked black hair lies against Light’s cheek, and Light can feel the rattling breathing, the deep inhales, a heartbeat. All reminders, and the crawling, filthy feeling flurries inside him, screaming out his guilt at a thing that hadn’t happened yet.

The storm spins around them, as if they stood at the epicentre, Light hopeless and wrecked, L attempting to prop him back up again. Random black feathers that had fallen from him circled them as the wind carried them, as if in mockery.

“You must try, Light.” L says into his ear, the deep voice cutting through to him. It isn’t a scathing tone; not one filled with hatred, like Light expects.

And so they try to move, L urging him onwards, taking a step towards the stairwell with Light plastered over him for support. Immediately, Light involuntarily lets out a sound of pain, a sob that forces its way out of him. His legs buckle with no strength left in them, had surrendered his wings to the wind as he allows them to drape behind him, wingtips glazing over the concrete.

L stops instantly, halting against him. The sound of Light in pain, reacting so humanly , seems to rattle him, and he stills, allowing the rain to hit against their joint skin some more.

“Come on, Light.” He urges, not scolding, but in soft encouragement.

Light nods weakly. He grips onto L, to the heat that he can feel under the drenched clothes and cold skin. The person he felt things for, felt guilt for, hadn’t died because of, nearly died because of.

L tries to walk again, holding Light upwards. They make it a few more steps, stumbling, every muscle in Light’s being screaming out in exhaustion. He is breathing rapidly, shakily, and he feels L tighten his grip on him, as if Light was about to slip away.

They stop frequently, when Light feels dizzy and on the verge of blacking out, when he physically cannot continue. The short walk is painful, made into a marathon, worse due to the burden of the creations hanging onto his back. It seems to drag on forever, his and L’s stopping and starting, trying to escape the storming sky, and return back to safety.

Every step is hard, his legs refusing to cooperate. And yet L stays resolute, keeping his hold on Light strong, pausing constantly. He was silent, letting Light’s quickening breath fill the space between them, allowing Light to fall against him helplessly without complaint.

Light couldn’t understand it. He did not understand this mercy, this gentleness, so soon after the utter betrayal. The anger still boiled inside him, but he had no energy to express it, and he needed L to take him back inside. He wanted, needed his support, for how little long it would last.

Light hardly realises when L pushes the stairwell door open, taking steps into the large, echoing, and thankfully dry, stairwell.

He drags Light inwards, who immediately rests himself against the wall for support. Exhausted, his body folds; he slides himself downwards, black wings forming a sleek carpet behind him, his legs splayed out on the cold floor.

L closes the door decisively. The storming quietens slightly, but the rain still knocks in from the outside.

The switch from the thundering, raging flurry on the rooftop, to the hushed, quieter stairwell, where Light’s breaths were audible between them, allowed for thought.

L similarly pushes himself against a wall, but curls inwards, his legs drawn tight to his chest, conserving little body heat. His wet hair falls limply in strands around his face, and when Light turns to catch his face, his demeanor; he seems pained. Unsettled and hurt, L’s eyes flickering back upwards to meet Light’s, finally clearer.

There is so little, and yet so much to say, and Light finds himself unwilling to begin it all. He doesn’t even care how L knows, or for how long he had known. He is too tired to open the Pandora’s box that was them, their interlocking ties and connections, the revelation he had whilst spinning out of control and facing death.

He particularly does not want to face the black creatures twitching uncomfortably, bones jutting out from joints and spindles of plume, who had been borne of said guilt for L.

They sit there in silence for a full minute, Light catching his breath, becoming aware of his surroundings, bringing back feeling in his legs.

It was then L shuffles, moves from his spot against the wall. He stands up, clothes dripping wet puddles onto the floor. Even he looks tired, a faint cast gloom along his features, different from the faux blankness he had before.

“I’m getting some towels.” He says softly to Light.

L shifts, turns to go down the stairs, showing the view of L’s drowned clothes from the back, the loosened dirty shoe laces that trail alongside him.

For some reason, Light begins to hurt again when he sees it. The wings jerk sharply, the muscles in his back cramping, and he talks, says the one thing that he wants to say, wants to know, before L leaves.

“What-what are you afraid of?” He pushes out hurriedly, his chest constricting, wings settling onto the floor. He remembers L’s last words, what would’ve been the last words L would ever hear, said in those blurry few seconds before the world collapsed and expanded all at once. It was the only goodbye Light got; it echoed in his head, and he wanted to know.

L pauses a few steps down when he hears it, and turns back to Light, the worn, depleted man hopelessly propped against the wall.

“A truth?” L says in response, halted on the steps, hand trailing on the banister.

Light only nods, throat raw and tinged in ice.

L looks at him, those pale features drawn into quiet suffering, and yet he still answers, words splintering off and echoing down the rest of the stairs.

“You.” He says first, matter of factly, and then; “This. Dying. Not reacting at all.”

The first three make sense to Light, who accepts these answers with open arms, knowledge that settles peacefully into his file for L in his brain. But the last, the most painful and sacrificing; that takes Light by surprise, absorbing L’s answer as it hits him. The things that the renowned L was most afraid of; confessed to him in an ugly, echoing stairwell with a storm thundering outside, and one of the answers was not reacting at all.

He is bereft of all words, so L only nods back to him, as if expecting the reaction, and turns on his heel to walk down the numerous flights of stairs they had climbed up together so long ago.

Light hears his ringing footfalls as L walks away, the black head disappearing from view. The steps grow quieter and quieter. Light’s head hits the wall, but he does not allow himself to close his eyes, scared of the dark oblivion he was so close to being stuck in.

So he bores holes into the floor under the dim, shaky lighting, left all alone. His absent mind wanders to L, and being alive, and he ignores the random trembles of the wings hidden behind him, as if they weren’t his, as if this life wasn’t his.

He thinks about the piece of himself he left down there in the alley, the discarded, abandoned feather, the hole amongst the great vastness of the wings that now felt empty.

*

When L returns, Light is calmer, a few minutes space from L allowing for a moment of focus. His body is still shivering and strung out, but he isn’t uncontrollable. His moment of paralysis on the rooftop, the initial aftershocks where his brain couldn’t comprehend solid ground, were beginning to fade from him.

Still sat slumped against the wall, he watched as L ascended again, changed, and much dryer than before, though his hair remained wet and bedraggled, as if he had run a hand through it and nothing else. He was holding a small bundle of towels, his footsteps slow and unhurried as he made his way back to Light at the top of the stairs.

Light had been mulling over L’s parting words with distaste, unable to fit them into the bigger picture that was L, like a puzzle piece that did not fit.

L stepped up towards him, a looming, tall figure from Light’s perspective, standing over him.

Wordlessly, L crouches down near him, and instead of handing Light a towel as expected, without hesitating, he begins to take Light’s wet shoes off of his feet, looping a finger through the laces.

“What are you- doing?” Light immediately asks, uneasy as L simply continues, slips off the soaked shoes and socks from Light with a manner of normalcy, as if they had done this a hundred times before. Light realises how little feeling was left in his extremities- his toes felt immovable, his fingers frozen and arthritic with the cold.

“I just wanted to help you.” L replies passively, unbothered by his actions, and passes a dry towel along his motionless feet.

Light watches in slight horror and embarrassment as L forges onwards, unbothered and steadfast, crouched down at his feet. Light wouldn’t be able to force up the energy to do it himself; L was tipping the scales of the dynamic between them.

“No, don't-do that.” Light says breathily, but makes little physical attempt to stop him, and L ignores it, finishing the left foot and beginning on the right without pausing.

“You will have difficulty doing it yourself.” L responds, and Light knows any argument will be futile against him, so he is quiet, bewildered in L, as he often was.

After a few moments silence, L working diligently on drying L’s feet with a towel, L adds a small confession, looking downwards while he does so; “Take this as a token of my apology.”

Light can’t even tell if he is serious or not- he sounds honest, but it would be the type of thing L would usually say sarcastically, part of their joint taunts that they would share. But here, secluded to the top of a cold stairwell, the escape from death and the raging commotion outside, they were far from their usual teasing punctuated with quirks of smiles. Here, encased inside the storm, with L at his feet, Light felt as if anything before his fall had happened in a different time, the evening had dragged on for so long.

The notion of an apology for what L had done was so absurd it barely registered to Light that that was what L was attempting to give him. An apology without actually saying the words I’m sorry for throwing you off a building, even if the words would be meaningless (or not) to the both of them.

L continues in his deprecating act, barely looking upwards from Light’s feet and the floor. The continuing rain sounds around them, echoes in the empty stairwell, echoes that sing in Light’s head.

L finishes drying Light’s feet with a final swipe of the soft towel. He places Light’s soaked socks and shoes to the side, and looks up at the collapsible Light, hunched against the wall, black feathers protruding around him.

“Let’s go downstairs, Light. It’s cold in here.” L says.

“I-can’t.” It is instinctive; wanting to save himself from further struggle and suffering. The pleading shows how much he had been dented, broken inwards; just saying the choked out words makes him feel some semblance of shame, of how weak he had become, so quickly, with one single movement.

L stares back at him pointedly, gesturing to Light’s dripping wet hair on his collarbones, his shirt that is latched onto his skin, the trembling and shivers that course up his body randomly.

“We have to leave here, Light.”

Some part of Light doesn’t want to leave. Leaving means accepting this has happened. If only he could pass out here, and be able to write this off as a nightmare, a bad dream. Leaving here means leaving that piece of himself down in the alley for good.

Light’s head hits the wall behind him, dreading whats about to come.

*

Light returns to being cloaked over L’s shoulders, but this time with the wings shadowing them, as if embracing both of them from behind. He returns to being helpless, and dependant on the stronger L, which is cruel. L with his matchstick body, his anemic pallor, his lanky frame. He is the one Light uses as a human crutch, muffles gasps into his shoulders, digs fingertips into collarbones when he feels as if he is about to go tumbling downwards.

Not too long ago, he had followed L up these steps, able and assured. He had willingly been led to his own destruction, and L had pupperteed him up this stairwell with mystery and promise.

He was returning down it cracked, crippled, L leading the way once again.

*

They end up back at the bedroom. Their bedroom.

Light feels as if he will always end up back here. The room will always exist, and he will forever remain rotating around it, dragged back in by its pull, in continual orbit.

Somehow, they always end up here. It’s how they started, and how Light sees it end.

The room remained untouched, their perfected tomb, a place they had created for themselves. It was as if their shared thoughts, their breaths, remained mingled in the air around them, hung in the darkness that welcomed them in as they stumbled past the doorway.

Light gasped heavily on L’s shoulders, who was also struggling to move at this point, after supporting Light down the multitudes of flights of stairs. They were both ragged as L fumbled with one hand to find the lightswitch.

The room lights up in a recognisable glow. The curtains are open; the moon is not visible past the blurry madness of the sky. In the time it had taken them to get downstairs, the storm had abided, but the raining persists- the soft tapping on the window greeted them inwards.

Light’s heavy breaths were audible in the room. With a few last joint drags to the bed-any bed, the nearest bed, L’s bed- Light falls onto the plush mattress with a barely contained relief. His seizing muscles struggle to regain feeling again. He surrenders, the dark wings splurging out behind and beside him without control.

They, like the rain, had also persisted. Heavy and rain-drenched, leaving a trailing puddle behind them as they had stumbled to the bedroom, clinging onto him.

Exhausted, Light takes a few solid minutes to try and regain his senses, one by one. The feeling of solidity, of permanence, is heavenly; even during their trek downwards, he kept a trailing fingertip on the wall or banister, to allow himself constant assurance. But the bed is soft, and warm, and gives beneath him, something the cold hard floor hadn’t provided. Scents wind around him; his own wet hair, damp with the lingering rain; the room itself, with its far away haze; and the pillow he was lying on, indented with something familiar. He leaned himself into this stability, this ground, like a dying man in search of water.

He laid there, stretched out, still damp, amongst the covers of the bed’s ruffled sheets. If L said something, Light didn’t respond; too lost in the ability to rest and regenerate.

He would’ve fallen asleep, he reckons, if, after some time, he didn’t feel a slight movement of his shoulder, a tugging by L.

In a hushed tone, as if he truly was regretful about disturbing Light, he spoke; “You’re wet.”

As if L hadn’t pressured him to step into pouring rain in the first place. As if this all wasn’t L’s fault.

“Please, could you… sit up?” This hesitant, wary tone of L’s, so indecisive, so asking. Not taking as he wanted anymore, but treading carefully around the collapsed heap that was Light, scared that he would fall into the quicksand.

Light still had no want to get up, or listen to L, for that matter. His head, his entire body, was too heavy to move, and he had sunk deep into the damp sheets beneath him.

“Please.” L repeated, as if just repeating the word would have an immediate effect. It was long and drawn out, and felt far away to Light, who made no sound in response.

And L, who was cruel, and had no patience, and had made Light’s life a living hell; used a long, naked fingernail to trail a line down the inward bend of Light’s exposed wings, close to where they met at his back.

Immediately, it caused them to flurry, jerking irrationally at the foreign contact, and Light shook, moved as if electrified. The sharp movements caused his muscles to creak again as he forcibly shifted, instinctually moving up in bed; wild, shocked, forced awake.

He gaped at L, who was stood at the bedside, his hand retracted from Light, looking slightly surprised himself. In his other hand, he held more, dry towels.

“Just. Leave me. What the fuck?” Light punched out, but the instant adrenaline had shocked him awake, his hazy tiredness settling in as an afterthought. His hands twisted in the increasingly damp sheets. The unsettled wings stopped their commotion; and paused, draping themselves behind Light on the bed, still wet and in complete disarray.

“Sorry. But,” L said, bringing the towels to the forefront, “You’re soaking the bed.”

“You care?” Light bit back instantly, because his own soaked body was the last thing on his mind. He could retreat back to warmth and comfort once his body had retained a semblance of normality; once the wings had curved back inwards, once his throat healed over, once his muscles worked again.

L bit his lower lip, nodded slightly, and gestured to Light’s curling, matted hair.

“Let me dry it.”

It was the least bizarre thing to come out of today, out of L’s mouth. And Light was too far gone to protest, too empty of arguments. So he simply sat there, mute and consigned.

L took the silence, the lack of movement, as approval. As if approaching something feral, he hesitantly joined Light on the bed (with the mattress similarly damp) and sat behind Light’s back, mostly hidden from view.

After a few seconds, carefully, he pushed the dry towel through the wet wreckage of Light’s hair. The soaked strands fell over L’s spindly hands, cold to the touch.

Light shivered from the contact, an invisible quake that pulled him from head to toe. He hunched inwards on the bed, arms wrapped around himself, as if assuring comfort.

L continued; long, soothing strokes of the towel through his raucous hair, flattening errant strands and drying it methodically. He did it slowly, unhurried. L’s low breaths echoed from behind him, some grazing the exposed skin of his neck, reawakening goosebumps over Light’s sensitive skin. Randomly, L’s forearm would brush against the stray feather tips from Light’s back, and it would momentarily alight something once more, that foreign instinct causing the wings to crease and reshuffle in response.

The whole experience was soft, careful, and consoling. It was a physical representation of L giving comfort; awarding peace, healing suffering.

In the midst of it, Light began to sink into the soft touch, body relaxing against the heat emanating from behind him. The room’s dim lights flickered, allowing his eyes to fall, and give him a murky blackness, a peace away from reality, with only the routine drag of the towel through his hair and on his scalp.

Eventually, L paused, the towel wet with the rainwater from Light’s hair. It was in much better condition than it was prior, with only some tips still damp, the hair messily falling around Light’s face, curling at his nape without order.

The wingtips still dripped soft puddles onto the carpet of the floor, and the bedsheets. Unflinchingly, L shifted to reach ends of feathers that remained wet. He padded them gently with the towel.

Light immediately startled, but it wasn’t the sharp jolt that had shook him last time. This was careful, and tender, without any real force. The feather tips shook minutely at the contact, and quickly settled again, as if growing accustomed to the feeling.

The sensitive nerves lit up Light’s spine as L continued, a slow brush of the towel through the elongated feathers on the large expanse of the wings, the feathers entirely in turmoil. With every stroke, every breath that passed with the feeling of warmth across distant nerve endings, the wings became more moulded to him, became more his.

It was when L, apparently unsatisfied with his ability to fix up the wings with the towel itself, abandoned it, and, carefully, reached in with his long fingertips, back into the divulgence of black and ruffled ebony. He delicately twisted a small feather, the spine still tethered to the bone, and flattened it, tweaked the chaos that were the wet and flurried mess of joined feathers on what used to be a meticulously arranged wings.

Light shivered, the furling, coiling feeling spreading throughout the spiderweb of nerves and lit sparks. Feeling the delicate touch, the singular tweak of one of the feathers made comfortable on his back, made goosebumps rise to the surface of his skin. Light loosened quick, shaky breaths.

“What are you doing?” He barely made out. L, unhearing, teased another small feather from the cacophony of wings. The wet strands stuck to itself; he twisted it, put it back in its rightful place.

“Fixing them.” L answered.

The air was leaving Light’s lungs. The sensory overload was beginning to rise within him; the flitting and folding of L’s hands amongst that vulnerable part of him, that gap that had arisen and refused to close, those hands so close to his spine, his life.

“Why?”

L continued unflinchingly, methodical and dedicated, a craftsman absorbed in his work.

“To fix them. They can look quite beautiful, you know.”

Beautiful. Light’s hands twisted in the sodden bedsheets hearing the word, some inner part of him writhing.

“That cannot be true,” He replied, teeth gritted, “You think that?”

The rain pulsed outside, dripping solemnly on the window in front of them, the curtains pulled back and adrift. L paused, traced a stray fingertip along the exposed spine of the one of the larger feathers, where engravings hide beneath.

“In the eye of the beholder, and all that.”

L dove back inwards, dipped fingertips into the darkest parts of him, the places Light could never reach.

“For all I thought I did, I don’t understand you,” Light rasped out, the words dug from the bottom of his throat, eyes trained on the ceiling above, “I never will.”

The finality of the words hurt. Unable to untangle his opposing emotions, Light didn’t know what he was feeling. He could only focus on the tremors that came from his spinal cord, the foreign, ghost like touches on the distant parts of himself, orchestrated by L.

Without being able to see, he could almost hear the sullen, slight smile on L’s face as he spoke.

“A good truth, Light. Perhaps you’re better than I thought.”

“Well,” Light half-laughed, half-scoffed, “That’s a lie.”

L trailed closer to the larger feathers, the outstanding primaries on his right wing, the agitated clusters that tangled and untombed each other. The feathers, the names, clashed, unyielding and twisted. L, with a tenderness that Light hadn’t felt since he was young enough to hold Sayu’s hand, cautiously began to separate the conjoined plumes. It was an act of correction, or reconciliation, of penance.

“Does it hurt?” L asked, as he encountered a particularly snagged part of the chaos, where the spines stuck out like needles.

“No,” Light hesitantly answered, “Just… feels. Strange.”

There were no words to describe the sensation of the caressing of a body that didn’t even feel his.

“Do they respond to you? I couldn’t really… tell.” L says, voice trailing off at the ends, his knuckles bent under a thick growth of feather tufts and snarled threads.

“Not to me.” Light responds, “They don’t do what I want them to. They act in their own… instincts.” He found himself fumbling on how to refer to the things etched into his back… They? It? Him?

L hums in response, his attention caught in the barbed feathers, black eyes constantly pulled downwards. The rain pulsed outside the swaying curtains, the moon hanging above them both past the windows.

He worked in silence, the conversation dropping from both their mouths. Light felt his limbs relax, the built up tension and pain dissipating into the warm air, the hot breath on his nape. His head fell forward, now dry strands brushing against his collarbone, his fingers lax on the bed sheets. The fear slowly peeled off him as the time, hardly recognisable, ticked forward. The night stretched on, and Light basked in it. For those seconds, minutes, hours, he only sat, empty, prodded by those delicate fingertips, fixing him.

L shifted from one wing to the next, mute, never faltering. He reached far, to the very wingtips, brushing through those velvet strands as if it was his vocation to restore peace to the mayhem he had caused Light. To heal over the wounds he had created, both today and over the past year, from the very moment they had met. From the first night they had slept here, so close, but so far, in separate beds, thinking about the other. From the first shared smile, and the first argument, the bickering and taunting, the competitive streak tense between them. From the first time Light had laid hands on him, pushed him away, kicked him, punched him, ignited the flame that wouldn’t die out.

He couldn’t think of L dying.

He was on the edges of sleep when L, breathing shallowly onto the feather-tufts of the smaller feathers, stirred, and began to speak once more.

“Light, I will never know you either.”

Sleep-hazed, eyelids dragged downwards, Light barely caught the words, the tiredness sunk deep into his bones.

“Huh?”

“You are Kira.” L says it naturally, the fact finally laid bare between them, it meaning something different to the many other times L had said it. This time, this last time, it was so painfully clear, so cutting, that Light had no choice but to stay silent.

“You are Kira,” L repeats, “You are immoral, and have killed thousands. You are my enemy.” At this, he cards a finger length through some newly untangled feathers, softly grooming them.

Light doesn’t even lift his head. The words swim in his mind, as if he were listening to them from underwater.

“And yet you have these.” L pulls out a trapped feather from beneath a larger one. He tugs at it, finally coming loose.

“And I,” He pauses, “Don’t. Can’t. I don’t feel guilt.”

“I am even more inhuman than Kira.” The words spill out, tumble into the air around them. L says them with malice, almost shame, venom, directed towards himself.

The wind howls in response outside.

Somewhere, a Shinigami laughs.

“A blessing and a curse.” Light only mumbles.

With a run of his splayed fingertips between the edges of the feathers, trailing from the bone to the wingtip, L lapses back into silence. He pulls away from the neatly arranged flare of Light’s black wings, an expansive barrier between them, Light’s brunet hair barely visible from past them.

L draws himself away, after what feels like a lifetime of meticulous concentration. He looks at the splayed pinions, the ebony abyss in the centre of their room.

Light sank forward, utterly spent, melted under foreign touch.

“Light.” L says, voice hushed, “I’m done.”

No response.

L shifts off the bed, walks around to see Light’s relaxed, sunken face, hair flitting in front of his closed eyes.

“You did that… to me… for the…” Light makes out, sounding drunken.

L swallowed heavily. He watches Light’s mouth move slowly, almost comatose, his limbs folding inwards, body draped across the mattress, wings now completely deflated. He looked unbearably, unimaginably, weak. One move; one word; and the entirety of Light Yagami could collapse in on itself.

“Yes.” L says, entranced, awed, horrified.

Light breaths deeply, his mind unspooling, wanting to sink completely into the darkness, to forget the night.

“Did.. did it-”

“No. It did nothing.” L tears himself away. His eyes wander to the window, the rain falling thickly onto the glass, Tokyo’s night lights blinking back at him. The world watched in on them both, waiting.
“Good.” The whispered word threaded into the quiet air.

When L turned himself back around to Light, the other had drifted from his position sitting up, and was now almost entirely laid out on the covers of L’s bed, his head dipped into his collarbones, foetal like. The wings lay flat behind him, relentlessly present, intending to stay the night.

L listens to the steadying breaths, the rising and falling of Light’s chest. Light had finally given in to sleep, by the looks of it, his body immovable and limp, the last dregs of rain and panic slowly disappearing into nothingness.

Something crawled in L as he looked upon him, the curled up figure on his bedsheets, dead to the world, stripped, bare, weak.

The stained wings fell over the edges of the bed, too large to fit, feathers twisting amongst the pillows and falling onto the floor.

L had long since upturned his sleep schedule. He ranged from extreme tiredness to insomnia, swings which Light himself had witnessed, commented about. Nights where he would sit in bed, laptop balanced upon his knees, sharing thoughts with Light across the room. Then the inevitable would happen; just like now, L, left alone, listening to the dragging inhale of Light’s lungs, the far away rattle of his ribcage, the rustle of his body on bedsheets. L, staring, awake, the night pouring in on them both.

Nothing had changed, really.

L turned away from the window. He lowered himself downwards, inched himself onto the last of the space on his own bed, the gaps at the very end of it, near Light’s legs. He pressed himself together, foetal like, a mimic of Light in everything but those blackened forms he had just spent hours stroking, holding, touching.

His own eyelids lowered. The blackness tumbled in, calling him inwards.

Nothing had changed.

Tomorrow, L thought, matching his own breaths with Light’s, we will force each other to.