Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the inside, Kira – the serial murderer – does not exist. Light Yagami, however, thrives on both technical plains. From what L could glean, news was limited and suppressed on the severed floor to increase productivity; he likens this sudden upheaval of society to that of a grand injustice. The greats of the country tout the measure as one of the most lucrative new standards towards a more efficient Japan.

A delusional killer flipping through their paperwork, sharing their network, and drinking from their fount of single-serve coffee machines - frankly - should have been against national policy on principle alone. If there were an incident, or if this cunning and intelligent criminal just happened along the wrong procedure, it would make him leagues more difficult to not only find and catch, but to put on trial. Crimes while severed were at the discretion of Lumon and Lumon alone. The conglomerate was its own legal entity, and why it pained L so to work under their proverbial thumb. 

“I’m L,”  he tests with absolutely no pretext after he’s walked into the office. The room is incredibly plain. Their desks are fashioned into a triad - of them, one is currently occupied. Light Yagami lingers near the copy machine. (He still looks wonderful under the grand fluorescent lighting. A dream of a phantom, floating - suspended in the liminal.) There are four motivational posters on the wall, which the long hallway that he was careened down sufficiently lacked. They are nondescript, evoking nothing of the outside world - except for a portrait of the island of Kyushu, where a Lumon satellite office had encroached on the natural beauty of the seascape. 

Misa files her nails with what he’s come to know as a company incentive. Her desk holds exactly four, contained within a bright pink pencil cup. Another incentive. Light, in seemingly purposeful defiance, has no accouterments littering the surface of his own.  L’s desk is obviously empty and almost indistinguishable, save for his own dimmed monitor. 

The fanfare that L expects - though, logically, he knows that no reporting body reaches the severed floor - fails to accost him. There are no swells of photographers, paparazzi, or anguished cries of those he’s sacrificed to secure his position. No. Instead, the copy machine in the corner whirs on. There are brief flashes of light underhead. They are the only overt change that takes place. There isn’t even a shift in Light’s expression. He just turns to face him, cool and competent, lending him his full attention. He holds the paperwork close to his chest, as one might a book they would be scolded for if dropped. L makes a mental note to pry later.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, L.” 

This is not the Light Yagami that’s known to him. His Light would have cut him with a look, made some crack about his name – his actual name. But, then again, he’s closer to his Light. He found those idiosyncrasies crass, yet endearing. This Light, so far, is unquantifiable. Could he achieve such a feat with the person standing across the way? Would Light still challenge him without the cavern of knowledge that stands between them? (Maybe, just maybe L feels like he’s cheating – getting to see Light in such an unaroused state with no way to defend himself against psychological attacks outside of their excuses to pencil push. Maybe L doesn’t mind as much as he wants to think he does. This quiet mundanity. He’s not a detective, here. He’s just –) “Yes, quite the pleasure.” 

“Do you always have your hair like that?” Amane asks, her knuckles resting against her cheek. In their fold, L knows her nails are perfectly manicured. He’s seen them in person, digging into her palms when faced with a pointed accusation – but again, here, in this mirrored world that is both the same and starkly different, she’s perfectly relaxed - and dressed smartly. Business casual.

L knows how he looks. Tired, his eyes shadowed in their usual dark-rimmed fashion. The avidity of Light’s killing has gained traction significant enough to require such aggressive tactics. At first, they fell in line with Lumon’s operational hours – the typical eight-thirty to five. It would be easy to write off or assign to any other office worker, but with Light’s compulsive need to collect as much overtime as he possibly could, the outlier had - perhaps unknowingly - stagnated the deaths in accordance to his time-card and drive home, approximately. His reviews state that in his four years of employment, he’s never taken a vacation. 

Teru - clean-cut, younger than himself - steps into view, offering L a little wave. What it conveys is a gentle, siphoned poison: you are thoroughly discouraged from disclosing information about your coworkers' outer selves while on the severed floor. 

L refused to put Watari in harm's way, so a proxy would have to do – someone more disposable, someone less important.

“Yes, always.” 

Teru claps; L will have to keep his voice down around him. “You’ll be paired with our department head: Mr. Yagami. He’ll be the one to train you, but that can wait.” Against proper protocol, L waived his right to an introduction of Lumon’s coveted software. He appreciated a challenge; through the illusion of choice, he’s designed one for himself.  Though, now – with Light in front of him, it seems a more daunting task. 

Light doesn’t even blink. In fact, he smiles at L – blindingly, showing teeth. “I’ll be happy to answer any question you have.” 

L’s lips press together, certain that he looks wary in the face of prospective death. Teru rolls in a delectable arrangement of cake slices – blueberry, strawberry, chiffon with fondant, chocolate for as far as the eye could see. Misa squeals and rises from her chair – “we’ve never had cake before!” 

Light just has black coffee. Misa tries the castella, waving her fork in the direction of Light’s pursed lips. That hasn’t changed, L notes. 

He can find enough information to suit the investigation within the next eight hours. 

He can survive the day – and promptly decides to sample every single piece in the meantime.

Chapter Text

For the first time in a long while, L dreams. He’s on the severed floor, staring at Light Yagami’s neck. There’s a mole behind his ear. His auburn hair wisps against it, sometimes, which slim fingers brush back when L’s line of questioning has a sharper edge. Because they are the same height, he knows that he’s sitting. The whirring again – and typing, like Light hands are right next to his ear. Clack, clack, wrr–

His hand vibrates, which is strange. He wasn’t given a cell-phone. Nothing that could slip away unaccounted for was allowed on his person, L recalls – no candy except for cinnamon discs, stolen from the bowl on Kitamura's desk. He looks down; the fluorescent panels flicker. A drill is in his hand, completing its perfunctory revolutions. Then, he’s looking down at Light: his thin neck craned, his skull open. He doesn’t look at the scalpel stained bright red in his left hand (which falls to the ground with a metallic clatter), because his eyes are pulled to space he’s created. He stares, and stares, and the room starts to fill with blood, staining the carpet, until it's washing the walls in a carmine current and weighing his pants, his legs, the sick against his collared shirt. Is Light alive? His hand creeps towards the mole, towards his neck - and his fingers feel - startlingly - like ice when levied against Light’s warmth. Alive, still, but he’s –

L wakes, sweating unfairly. 

He spends seven minutes staring at that spot on Light’s neck, watching the dark mark fade in and out of approximate clarity. “L –” Light says delicately, like he’s afraid of misstepping as he changes the liner on a trashcan. “Have you had enough time to settle in this morning?” 

He sounds tired. Unsurprising, when one spends their evening executing criminals.

Involuntarily, L huffs in amusement. He’s spent seven minutes doing exactly nothing except watching Light traverse the room with a piece of paper in his hand, refilling printer cartridges, and running a vacuum across the carpet. He’s sure Light doesn’t need it; he hasn’t referred to it once. These pointless tasks are lodged in that brain of his and, briefly, L remembers looking through his skull. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves his second cinnamon disc of the day. 

“One could say that,” L affirms around the piece of candy, the cellophane wrapper a bright-red mar against the white of his desk. 

“Why’s he sitting like that?” Misa – late – asks. The buttons of her stylish jacket clatter against the back of her chair. 

“I assure you, I’m much more efficient this way.” At whatever it is they’re supposed to be doing, and he assumes that he will be learning now that the pleasantries have been thankfully done away with. Records of Misa’s output state that she’s particularly in-tune with the particular sensitivities (apparently, an important and quantifiable metric) of the job. “You should try it.” 

Misa gasps, offended, and smooths out her elegant dress before she sits down – properly, without imitating the way L’s legs are pretzeled. “That’s not something that you should say to a girl .” 

“Anyway,” Light interjects, sparing him the conversation, “we should get started.” 

Light drags his chair over to fit himself into the scant space between their cubicle partitions. L doesn’t shift to make room. Instead, his cavalier stare burns into Light, watching his expression - looking for any change in reaction. If L, perhaps, seems a bit too familiar. But he’s not given anything discernable. Yet, anyway. 

“Log on for me.” 

L does, providing his temporary password. 

“Good,” Light voice shimmers, and L remembers that the candy clinking against his teeth is not an antiemetic. “Now, go here –” He places his hand over L’s ergonomic mouse, the tip of the arrow swinging to the ‘LUMON’ logo. The file he chooses is one he, by name, recognizes: 'Okinawa'. Suddenly, an array of numbers span across his desktop, like stars against the evening sky. Light hovers over a few, causing a cluster to bloat. “Do you notice anything significant about these, here?” 

L can’t even begin to understand what he’s supposed to see. Each number looks like the last, ballooning and receding as Light hovers over them. “Significant?”

“They're programmed to elicit an emotional response from you.”

“They're scary!” Misa chimes in, peeking over the partition that she had raised earlier. “They make you want to get rid of them.” 

L looks closer. Light's hand touches his shoulder, drawing him back from the screen. “You'll damage your eyes like that,” he says, sounding more like his Light: perturbed, wary, and thoroughly unamused by L’s shenanigans.  

“It will come with time,” Light concludes under his breath; he supposes that it’s supposed to sound assuring – a skill gained like an acquired taste, but it reeks of condescension – of a disappointment so certain that it forces L to turn away from his subject and towards Misa Amane. 

“Miss –” He’s not supposed to know her full name. “Misa. Could I borrow you for a moment?” 

 “See? I knew he’d like me more than you.” She laughs and pushes her chair to L’s desk – all smiles, until her lips form a pout when Light hasn’t moved himself out of the way yet. “Ahem. Light.” 

Light – finally – blinks and shifts. As he goes, he swipes up the wrapper that L hasn’t yet discarded. 

“So, you see, L. Here, and here, and here.” She quickly disposes three bundles of numbers.

There’s a prickling under his skin that he’s felt only when looking in the dulcet-brown tones of Light Yagami’s eyes – radiant in the morning light, splendorous in any other context – yet suffocating. Captivatingly endless - the way a cold works through his veins and makes him tremble, sweat. “These are next – around here.” 

“Ah.” L says. He figures that he’s presented with some sort of advanced encryption technology. Or, possibly – that Misa Amane is strictly impartial to the number ‘three’, as it has centered two out of the four batches that she has disposed of. Whatever the case may be, L has a staunch position on giving LUMON access to his data, emotional or otherwise; it is imperative that he refuses. While it does pique his interest, he is not investigating the motive behind LUMON’s work at the lowest possible tier; his attention - like the tides, tracing their own wet imprints and guided by some greater force - returns to Light, who sits in his periphery. “Thank you. I’ll continue from here.” 

She gives an affirmative squee; and L is left alone with his numbers. An hour passes. Misa makes idle chatter. L clicks around his screen randomly. No error message appears. He starts to believe that his account is a dupe – contributing exactly nothing towards the corporation, while still securing a means for the investigation to continue. 

“Is something wrong, Light?” L has asked that same question hundreds of times. His eyes reflexively land on his mole, and then Light’s wrist, rolling.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” His expression betrays him. He realizes that L must have noticed, smoothing the scrunch in his brows - the way his eyes creased in acute discomfort. He smiles, laughs, laces his fingers together. “I play tennis, supposedly.” Realizing that L might not know what tennis is, his mouth opens. L thinks to interrupt, but he hasn't seen Light this excited since the beginning of the investigation. L's presence with his Light is a constant, where Light has settled into his natural state: self-assured, a bit rude, imperfect (which L finds he prefers).  “It’s a sport. I must have overexerted myself." 

"Interesting." 

Chapter Text

L wakes from a dreamless sleep, crumpled, aching, and feeling an absence. Blue light pours into the room, an early morning significance. The birds he hears are an illusion. Today, he has an appointment – coffee – with Light Yagami. Watari is already awake. L is half-naked (he refused to fall asleep in his slacks or collared shirt - the remnants of his uniform are strewn about the room in linear piles: his shoes - always the first to go, his socks, his shirt, and finally, tossed across the floor and deflated are his pants).  The room is scented with tea. He shuffles off the sheet that’s been tossed over him, closes the laptop that he had left open throughout his late-night research on the severance procedure: medical findings, oppositional groups, and, as his eyes had threatened to close on him, the highly controversial topic of code-breaking, spoken about in digital whispers. 

“Good morning. How was work?” Watari asks; L can hear the smile in his voice. He supposes there is something funny about the whole ordeal. Never in his life did he assume that his work as a detective would lead him towards the conglomerate, which he has been so staunchly against from the beginning. 

“Monotonous.” L replies from over the rim of his cup, tipping it back. His attempts to drink like Light are just that: mere attempts at understanding, but illuminating in a slanted way. (Light’s mouth would taste just like this.) He powers through his cup. He doesn’t touch the crepe, plated beautifully, but instead - stabs at it with a butterknife, ruining the presentation. His hands move on their own, dark eyes staring off - unilaterally focused, but separate from what is in front of him. “This is proving more difficult than I originally anticipated. I need more time.” 

Watari’s hand lands on L’s hiked shoulder. He relaxes, then. 

Thirty-three new deaths, substantial connections to the Kira case. 

(L reviews the footage from Light Yagami’s apartment without exaltation.)

Their dates are simple, much more for L’s satisfaction than Light’s. For whatever reason – or, perhaps, for this reason alone – he’s agreed to a schedule of meeting every second week. (L is not a complete monster. If Light went without a knowledgeable reprieve, L would end up consumed faster than he could reasonably account for. Light is a burn, controlled only by the substance of his own parameters. L is no stranger to fire-fighting.)

Depending on the time of year, the setting changes. In the spring, they would walk among the cherry-blossoms. Rainy days shuffle them inside – into local museums, bank waiting rooms (their clothing drenched), and cafes, the last of which they’ve found themselves in today. 

L notes, because he can’t help himself, that Light’s LUMON branded shirt strains against his chest. He’s dressed for a run, forehead sheened with an advertisement’s worth of sweat - almost artificial in its perfection. His shorts are nearly an inappropriate length – and L wonders if that, too, is purposeful. 

“How’s your wrist?” L hasn’t ordered, Light insists on both ordering for him and paying. (L has mentioned the ethical dilemma of taking a bribe, even in the form of sweets, in the midst of an investigation. Light urges him to let it slide, just this once, twice, thrice.)

At his side, a lemon tea-cake appears. The cafe isn’t busy, their meeting a hazy Saturday morning. The weather must have warded off their usual guests. Light’s outfit becomes that much more improbable. 

His face blanks, giving absolutely no reaction - the same immobile waters; L will drown in their innumerable fathoms. “Fine. Why?”

“Oh, no reason, really.” L says, picking at the Bundt in little, precise pinches. Light turns his face away towards the window; their reality is dyed pure white. L can see his reflection – and maybe, Light knows this. “And your work?” 

This makes Light smile; mischievous, his hands folded together, reminding L too much of a cat known for its penchant to misbehave. He leans back in his chair – eased into a false sense of comfort. “Good, I assume. I’ve been promoted recently. That comes with a raise – and more responsibility.” 

“I've heard you're rather exceptional.”

Light laughs, carefree – necessitating bashfulness, but offering none. “Who told you that?”

L huffs, chews, swallows. “It's only natural that I would conduct an interview with your employer.” 

“Ryuzaki,” Light sighs, play-frustrated. He has just picked up his coffee cup (served black - without accouterments), only to set it back down. “I'm not Kira.”

L thinks that one of the baristas behind the counter is eavesdropping; better for him to have witnesses - though, he can't account for how they, as a mismatched pair, look to an everyday civilian. He's too focused on Light’s expression - catching every minute detail in his scowl. “Your coffee will get cold. Drink up.”

“I can't have this investigation interfering with my job,” and, for once, Light poses a valid concern. He sounds genuine, face slightly red, which he has only witnessed a handful of times after excessive experimentation – though, L wonders if that is due to the chill. Regardless, he's not upset enough that he avoids following instructions. 

“It's standard procedure - especially in high-profile cases, like this one.” L’s eyes gleam. “But, not to worry. All I've learned is that Light Yagami excels in every conceivable aspect of his life.”

“You look tired,” a cruelty, it teeters on concern.  

“I haven't been sleeping well.”

“You could have cancelled,” Light posits, something sweet in his eye, “and slept in.”  

No. I couldn’t have, L thinks, but refrains from naming Light as a great importance in his life past a certain, negligible point; to remind of his vocational prowess has merit, L baring his vulnerabilities does not. He looks further into the cafe, his head tilting to a side in defeat. He watches their fellow patrons: well-to-do couples out on dates, businessmen working from their laptops. He picks up one of the sugar cubes provided to Light and applies pressure between his thumb and pointer finger. He wonders if Light’s inner-self – the one with a smile unmoored by their circumstances – would make the same suggestion. “Is Light trying to get out of meeting with me?” 

“Would that disappoint you?” Light has the audacity to ask. The question is a magnet, snapping their gazes back together. He smiles, tapping L’s knee under the table. “No, of course I’m not. I wasn’t busy to begin with.”

“You could spend this time with friends.”  

“Aren’t we friends, Ryuzaki?” 

Thirty-love – Light has, tragically, taken the lead. 

“We’re an amalgamation of things,” L sprinkles the remaining sugar onto the rest of his cake. “Suspect and detective just happen to be the most prevalent labels, at the moment.” 

Light’s face falls. L’s plate is swept into his hand, his emptied cup placed atop for the future convenience of their server, as if guided by some soundless cue. 

Come home with me, Light says when their dishes are done away with. 

Chapter Text

L’s scarf hangs meekly over his shoulders until Light takes it upon himself to fix it. His hands shuffle into his pockets. L can see the impression of his phone and a flash of upper thigh. His gaze resolutely shifts and he sniffles loudly. 

“Watari knows we’re together.” 

“He knows you’re coming home with me?”

A burn works its way through L’s abdomen, walking the thin line between indignation and arousal. He burrows further into his scarf. Sharper, muffled:  “I think you know exactly what I mean, Light.” 

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” 

A long silence precedes their steps. L’s rhythmic breath is filtered through the fabric. There isn’t any need to fill the silence with conversation – it’s comfortable. Small talk would make him seem nervous and, with as many times as he’s walked these same steps back to Light Yagami’s single apartment, appearances are a matter of life and death. There is no need to invoke pleasantries, to speak about the weather as if it is something they will be indulging in for longer than their feet can carry them to his front door. L prefers it this way. In this life, L is not allowed many simple things. 

They walk over a bridge together; underneath is a small pond. L pauses briefly to watch the water. Light stops with him. 

Angles he’s seen through his screen stretch out before him from a more intimate, tangible perspective. The inside of Light’s sink is pristine with his dishes washed after every meal. Mail – each letter sliced open with a precise, sharp instrument – is a neat stack on the counter. Apples in a bowl. Grey light shrapnels against cream-colored walls, their shadows eclipsing briefly as they pass. Light grabs him by the scarf, unravels it, lets it drop to the floor. 

L starts with his mouth. Mischievous lips trail to Light’s neck, parting against the nape and sucking a dark mark against the spot that had captivated him so, where no collar could possibly hide the bloom of color that would inevitably follow; red against Light's blue sheets, a dark brown for a stark contrast under the florescents Monday morning. Light’s breathing hitches and L is triumphant in the sound that he earns - a simpering groan, quivering from the center of his chest. Though Light is pinned to the bed, which creaks under their weight, he shifts upwards - closer, encroaching on the nary of space that exists between their bodies.

“Ryuzaki,” Light breathes, ragged, composure shattered. He paws at L’s back, shoving his shirt up - exposing his skin to the chill of the late-morning; the air in Light's apartment is dry, oscillating weakly, and as sleek as his countertops. He touches L’s skin to feel it pebble under the warmth of his hands, and fights a grin. “Are you cold?” Light coos, as his hands slide up further - around the concave of waist - to his chest. 

L cuts him a look. Light thumbs at his nipples, L’s knees box in his sides. 

‘You kiss like you’re trying to eat me,’ Light told him once, while wiping spit from the corner of his mouth – though, he wouldn’t categorize that as an actual complaint, if the way he surged forward for another said anything. (He still swallows after every glide of his tongue, every push of saliva down his throat.)

Light's hand presses at his shoulder, shoving him onto the opposite end of the bed. “Stay there.” The angle is awkward: Light barely reaches L’s chest and L’s elbow digs into the mattress, before he slots himself against him appropriately. Light’s beauty is most radiant when he looks like he’s won – with a grin of a complete deviant, a little manic in his movements, so L allows him this brevity in his facade. Never has his Kira percentage been higher. 

Their mouths find each other again. The pads of L’s fingers trickle down Light’s sides to those ridiculous shorts. He slots them between the elastic on the leg closest to him, past his upper thigh, able to feel the heat of Light’s body -- a heady damp coating the fabric of his briefs against his sweaty palm. He can feel that Light is hard. L salivates, a Pavlovian response. 

With minimal struggle, their shirts are discarded in symbiotic movement. L’s eyes flicker, brushing over the spot where the LUMON logo had rested against his chest but a moment ago, as if cooling a brand. His lips replace them. Light tastes like sweat, lingering on the clean of L’s skin. “Are you not showering solely on my account?”

“You don’t seem to mind.” 

L bites him with his imperfect teeth, sharp in odd places - against his knuckles, soothing in others; then, licks at the crease of Light’s neck; salt on his tongue. Ow, Ryuzaki –

L has thought about this extensively: what Light is searching for when he touches him, what he sees when L is splayed out underneath him, like some wanton, pleasant thing to steal an evening (a morning) away with. They paint a domestic scene over a blood-letting. Their shifting ruins Light’s made bed. L tries to contain this killer, this shell of corporate nomenclature, only to grapple with glittering dust in the fading light. Perhaps it was a remnant of something once - though just what L has in his hands, Light will never concede. L wants to tear every shirt off their hanger. L wants him to break. L wants to win after so many losses have been lobbed his way. 

“What are you doing?” Light sputters. 

“Admiring. You said it yourself: you’ve done this for me – which is very unlike Kira.” He says, just to gain his approval. L kisses a bicep, ascends higher until he’s reached his shaved armpit. Light’s toothpaste is LUMON. Light’s razor is LUMON. Light’s deodorant is LUMON. Light’s choice of lubricant - which he pulls from a storage box beneath his bed - is just as predictable.

“Because you’re not dead?” Light gravels, his voice pitched an octave lower – a breathy reprise of their tennis matches, high on endorphins and wrapped up in each other again, again, and again. He’s shifting more than before, trying to peer down at L from the way his face is pressed against Light’s arm, grinding their cocks together through the obtrusive amount of fabric between them. He must know that L prefers him disheveled, that he chases the flash of shadow that creeps up the wall, just as he knows that Kira would prefer him with an open casket. “That’s, ha –” L  inhales, smelling an intimation of ocean breeze, Light’s body wash, and neither of those things all at once. “Presumptuous. How would you know what Kira likes in bed?” 

L lifts his head, stares right into Light’s eyes. “Because I’m here with him.” 

“Take your jeans off,” Light scoffs – unsexy, a demand with a paradoxical allure. He hovers while L does so, kicking them off just enough that they just miss snagging around both ankles. “Would Kira touch you like this?” 

Light cups him through his underwear, unable to stifle an appreciative hum at how – despite their banter – L’s body seems to have reacted in an anticipatory fashion. 

“If it was to their benefit.” 

Light’s laugh is a mockery. Alone, in bed together, he sounds devious - unlike the polite, contained laughter of his inner-self. He gives L a squeeze that makes him dizzy and, with his unoccupied hand, strips L of his boxers. L flags against his stomach. 

(Bedding Light has been an arduous journey; though, interesting. There was no denial of attraction, as one might expect from someone of his conservative background. Qualms of the investigation came from two separate ends; they circled one another with Light’s lingering touches and L’s unflinching gaze.)

L’s eyes squeeze to a close – a flush uncharacteristically high on his face. He almost looks ill - ruddy-cheeked where Light looks, yet again, perfect. 

The suspect pumps a finger, and then a second into him intermittently, then together, opening the detective while he attempts to keep his composure, fated to lose. 

“Watch me, Ryuzaki.” L’s eyes remain closed until Light pumps his hand faster inside of him, all trembling limbs. “You need this. You need me.” 

L doesn't choose this moment to question him. “Enough,” he breathes like the air has been knocked out of him. He pulls down Light's shorts. Light grabs his ankle, hooking it over his shoulder. 

“L –” Light groans and L spills.

“You’re the only person I know that would be bold enough to read someone’s diary while they’re in the shower,” Light says through his exasperation, hand carding through his bangs - reordering the strands so they appear neater, more uniform – and, quite possibly – less sticky. His eyes are wide, with a certain shine to them that follows their typical routine of debauchery. 

“Leisure reading. I’m extremely curious as to what goes through your head.” L says, pinching the book from Light’s bedside table between two sets of fingers. His movements are languid, relaxed – not so stifled. He shifts so he’s comfortable, splaying himself obnoxiously, before he curls into a ball with the book in his hand, taking up less space. (A retired finding: Light’s bed is too stiff.) “Most of the time, anyway.” 

Yagami Light hunches over his desk to write in his diary at approximately 6:00 PM every day, unfalteringly. L might not believe that Light valued this routine so thoroughly if he hadn't the physical proof in his hands. 

“And the rest of the time?” 

You need me to make your life more interesting, a faint echo in a familiar tone - a ghost of a monument, built in L's mind.  

“I can only assume.” 

XX

Had a meeting with my father. He mentioned my severed status again, which is a topic I thought we had put to bed a while ago. It was annoying at first, but I will just have to come to terms with the fact that he won’t understand. We’re equally stubborn in our choices, father and son. 

XX

Even though I kept a close eye, I accidentally burned the rice today while taking a call. Sayu laughed at me and we ordered take-out instead. We watched a cheesy romantic film after that, even though she fell asleep halfway through. What a brat. 

XX

Last evening’s dinner turned out well. It was an improvement from the night before. I went shopping and tried a new recipe. 

XX

Lately, I’ve been thinking about a new hobby – something practical. Sayu suggested knitting, but I’m considering volunteering with a few local organizations. 

XX

On the horizon is tax season. I should start preparing early.