Chapter Text
PART I
A thin mist crept over the fields of Winchester, trailing its cold fingers across the low stone walls and wide hedgerows like something half-forgotten. The car hummed steadily along the narrow country road, the kind that curved like a lazy ribbon across hills too green to be real. England always looked like a painting just beginning to dry - - muted, washed in light that didn't shine so much as hover.
Trees - - stoic and bare from winter's lingering touch - - lined the horizon like sentinels watching the world pass by in slow motion. A single bird dipped from the grey sky in search of something unseen.
Inside the car, warmth buzzed low from the vents. It wasn't much, but it kept the windows from fogging completely. The radio sang a few bars of a forgotten pop song, then lost signal again in a brief warble of static.
Light Yagami sat in the passenger seat with his elbow propped against the door, chin in hand, staring out across the expansive English countryside. The sky hung low and grey, but there was something soft in it, something hushed. Spring hadn't yet committed itself to the season. Here and there, tufts of early daffodils burst through frost-dusted grass like small rebellions.
L's fingers were curled around the steering wheel - - delicately, like it might suddenly lurch and bite. He blinked slowly at the road ahead. He didn't like to drive, usually - - said it made him feel too in control of something he didn't trust. Light drove better anyway. Smoother. Less distracted. But Light hadn't slept. Not properly, not in days.
At home, papers were stacked high on the dining table. Witness statements. Surveillance logs. Photographs marked in red pen. Scribbled notes in Light's elegant, precise handwriting. There was also the seating chart for the wedding.
"You're still worried about everything," L said at last. His voice was barely louder than the engine.
Light's breath fogged a soft oval against the passenger window.
"I never understood how planning a wedding could be as stressful as everyone made it out to be," he muttered, fingers twitching absently. "Now I understand. As soon as we finish deciding one thing, ten other details that need decisions made about them appear."
There was a long pause, filled only by the tyres crunching over damp gravel and the tap-tap-tap of light rain beginning to dot the windshield. The countryside blurred past in shades of moss and stone and smoke.
"Is it only the planning that you're worried about?" L asked at last, hesitant.
Light swallowed, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "You know there's the case at work. The family stuff."
"Your parents are fine with us," L said softly.
"They are," Light said. "But the rest of the family..."
He trailed off, brow furrowing. His mouth pressed into a thin line.
L didn't say anything. He simply turned the wheel gently and guided the car to the shoulder. They came to a soft stop beside a low, crumbling stone wall that separated the road from a long stretch of pasture, green and empty except for a lone sheep blinking at them in slow, vague interest.
The engine idled quietly. A light drizzle began, threading down the glass in long, lazy streaks.
"They haven't responded to the invitation," Light said, voice brittle. "Not my grandparents. Not my uncle. Not even the cousins who were always around when we were kids. Not even a polite no."
L leaned forward slightly, watching the sheep drift away into the mist.
"I think," he said slowly, "I don't really understand why that matters."
Light turned his head toward him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I want to understand," L corrected, "but I don't. I never had a family. Not like that. I don't know what it feels like to want them to be proud. Or even present."
His voice was matter-of-fact, not bitter, but something in it still landed heavily in Light's chest.
Without thinking, Light reached across the console and took L's hand. Held it firmly. His fingers were slightly cold. Always cold.
"I didn't mean to make you feel - - "
"You didn't," L interrupted, eyes still on the glass. "I just... I proposed to you because I wanted to, Light. Because I want to marry you. But lately it feels like I'm the only one looking forward to the day."
He turned his head at last, dark eyes wide. "Sometimes I wonder if it was a terrible decision."
Light blinked, stunned. The question didn't land - - it hit.
"A terrible decision?" His grip on L's hand tightened. "L, are you saying you want to take it back?"
L's gaze dropped to their joined hands. He gave a small shake of his head. "Your reaction is somewhat reassuring that you don't want me to."
Light sighed again, a soft sound edged with disbelief. "That's not it at all."
And it wasn't. Not even close.
"I want to marry you," he said. "There's no doubt in my mind. But I'm allowed to be stressed. That doesn't mean I'm second-guessing us. Planning a wedding is chaos. Being in law enforcement is chaos. Everything right now is chaos except you."
He shifted, slipping a hand under L's chin and guiding his face upward until their eyes met.
"I love you," he said. "More than anything in the world. I'm not having second thoughts. I just need a break. And I can't take one. Not yet. Not with the wedding. Not with the case. We're mid-investigation. I can't just walk out."
The fatigue in his eyes was drawn in like charcoal - - carefully shaded shadows where colour used to live.
L watched him for a long moment.
"You already solved the case," he said. "All that's left is to suffer through the tedious parts."
Light groaned, then sank back into the leather seat. "Protocol is protocol. Circumstantial evidence isn't enough. You know that."
"True," L murmured. "But it would be so much easier if it was."
"It would. Not all of us get to go rogue and still sleep at night."
"You know that I prefer to sleep during the day."
That startled a laugh from Light - - a real one, sudden and bright - - and the tension loosened from his body like steam.
"Maybe you had the right idea," he said. "Private consultancy. No red tape. No bureaucracy."
"Then quit."
Light raised an eyebrow. "And do what?"
"We could run a rehabilitation programme," L said. "Or prevention. Something useful."
"I am doing something useful."
"I didn't say you weren't."
There was no sting in L's voice - - just that familiar dry logic that had once infuriated Light and now soothed him. L's thumb brushed slow circles across the back of his hand.
"I don't want to argue," L added.
"We're not arguing," Light said. He leaned in and kissed him. Brief. Warm. Then rested their foreheads together.
L still smelled faintly of that terrible gas station coffee they'd grabbed earlier, the one Light had complained about but drank anyway.
"Let's talk about something else."
"Like the tablecloths?" L asked innocently. "Pearl white or beige?"
A reluctant smile tugged at Light's mouth. "I swear I'll murder the next vendor who brings up centrepieces."
"And yet you've had a heated discussion with yourself about whether the flower arrangements should be in bunches of twelve or sixteen."
"Don't remind me."
"Have you considered no flowers at all? Perhaps balloons on each table."
"What, and let my mother have a heart attack? I've never seen her so invested in floristry."
Light slumped against L's shoulder with a loud sigh. Outside, the rain thickened just slightly, turning the world behind the windows into watercolour.
From the radio came a familiar melody, tentative and slightly crackling with static - - a ballad from the early 2000s, soft and embarrassingly romantic. Light recognised it instantly. It had been on the radio that first week he'd arrived in England, the week he'd met L.
L kissed his forehead. Gently. Like a seal.
"All that matters," he said, "is that I'm marrying you."
The words burrowed somewhere deep in Light's chest, warming parts of him even the heater couldn't reach.
He tilted his head, met L's eyes, and kissed him back. Slow.
For a moment - - just a moment - - the world shrank to that small space between them. No wedding lists. No case files. No unanswered RSVPs. Just the rain, and the soft hum of the car, and the man beside him who had once been a stranger with peculiar habits and a mind sharp enough to slice through steel.
He was far from Japan. But he was home.
He knew it.
_________._________
They'd chosen the house together.
Maybe they'd done things in the wrong order - - wasn't it supposed to be marriage, then a house? But somewhere between idle conversations over breakfast and half-serious weekend trips to open houses, they'd stumbled into a place that felt like it had been waiting just for them.
It was a quiet thing. A Victorian with modern edges - - hardwood floors that creaked in a charming way, walls painted soft sage and pale cream, windows on the second floor that turned golden at sunset. And the view. God, the view. A stretch of forest like something out of a fairy tale, where the morning mist curled around trees like breath.
Four bedrooms, a study big enough to drown in, and a kitchen wide enough for L to create spectacular chaos.
They'd walked in and just... knew.
Light slipped out of his shoes and hung his coat on the hook, exhaling slowly as the warmth of the house wrapped around him. The soft hum of the heating system, the faint creak of floorboards, the smell of cinnamon from a candle one of them had forgotten to blow out.
And then L was kissing him.
Not gently. Not this time.
It was the kind of kiss that took and gave all at once. The kind that made Light stumble backward until his spine met the wall and his breath caught in his throat. L pressed into him like he could erase the fatigue from Light's bones with nothing but mouth and motion.
Light's hands clutched at L's sleeves, grounding himself. The rush of heat between them was heady.
"L," he murmured against his mouth, "right here?"
L didn't answer. Just kissed him deeper, slower, one hand fisting in the hem of Light's shirt, the other drifting to his hips.
It wasn't about sex, not entirely. It was about anchoring. About coming home. About the wordless way they reminded each other, I'm here. I want you. You are not alone.
Light gasped as L's lips found his neck, warm and insistent, and he tilted his head to give him more. Hands gripped at his hips, roamed lower, under the hem of his trousers, and Light felt his knees go weak.
And then -
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it the first time.
It buzzed again. Then again - - persistent, high-priority.
Groaning, he reached for it, trying to steady his breath.
"L - - " he managed, voice rough, "I've got to get this."
L rested his forehead against Light's collarbone with a small sigh, his breath hot against skin. But even as Light answered the call, L didn't move away. His hands lingered, moving with maddening precision to the tip of his -
Light bit down on a curse and forced his voice into something resembling professionalism.
"Yagami speaking."
The voice on the other end crackled through, urgent and clipped. "We've confirmed the witness is backing out of the statement. She says she saw the wrong person - - claims she was pressured."
Light closed his eyes. Not now. God, not now.
"Was she approached?" he asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice as L's fingers carried out a maddening rhythm, now stroking him up and down.
"Possibly. She's scared. We're going to lose her."
Light's jaw clenched. His free hand gripped L's shoulder like a lifeline.
"Put her in protective housing," he said through his teeth. "Full surveillance. Tell her the pressure's off. We'll revisit the statement later."
"Understood. And - - sir, is everything... are you okay?"
Light's eyes flicked down at L, who was still very much not stopping.
"I'm fine," he said, voice clipped. "Let's talk about this tomorrow."
He hung up before they could ask anything else.
And then he came undone - - shuddering against L, every part of him unraveling into the warm weight of the man holding him as he felt himself come.
When it passed, Light slumped against him, breath ragged, he murmured, still breathless, "You're completely insane,"
"I'm comforting you,"
"Is that what it is?"
"You know, you seem much less stressed."
Light smiled, helpless and soft, and buried his face against L's shoulder.
_________._________
The rain had continued coming down like clockwork that evening. It tapped faintly at the glass, neither invasive nor ignorable, the kind of sound that settled deep into your bones if you listened long enough. Light Yagami had stopped noticing it sometime between the third edit of a witness report and the moment L's voice became background noise - - a steady, murmuring thread of French as he argued over some fine point of extradition with Interpol.
L was seated at the other end of the leather sofa, laptop perched unceremoniously on Light's thighs, his own long legs folded up. Light, having long ago given up protesting the indignity of being used as living furniture, had reclined into the cushions, documents still clutched in one hand, his other arm draped over his eyes.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep.
When he stirred, it was because of a shift in weight, subtle. Typing. Still going.
"Morning," came the dry, affectless voice from above his knees.
"Is it?" Light's throat was thick with sleep. He blinked at the ceiling.
"Around five." L didn't look up. "A.M., if you're wondering."
"I feel like death."
"If you're death," L murmured, biting absently on the edge of his thumb, "I'd welcome it."
Light exhaled a soft laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Well. Isn't it lucky your fiancé isn't a murderer, but someone trying to put them behind bars?"
L paused his typing. "I think you'd have it in you."
Light lowered his hand. "What?"
"To murder someone," L replied, utterly bland. "Under the right circumstances."
There was nothing within reach to throw, and he was too comfortable at that moment to move a pillow from underneath himself, so Light kicked him. Not hard. Just a heel to the side. L didn't even flinch, only stared down with his habitual nonchalance.
"Violence," he said softly, "See? It's hardwired in you."
"You're the worst," Light groaned, pushing himself upright, the documents sliding to the floor.
"True," L agreed, already back to typing. "But I'll still make a good husband."
"That's debatable," Light muttered, stretching his arms over his head until his spine felt painful in three different places. "Want some coffee?"
L only made a vague sound that Light interpreted as a yes. He walked toward the kitchen, body sluggish, limbs heavy with a weariness that had soaked into him.
Light filled the kettle and let it hum to life, leaning his weight onto the kitchen counter.
He would sleep. Soon. After the coffee. After...
Damn. His parents.
He straightened up too quickly, the motion making him sway. He hadn't called them - - and his mother had asked for the third time in a message that day if he'd confirmed the airport pickup. They were flying in for the wedding next month. May 19. He stared at the wall clock, quickly calculating the time now in Tokyo.
The kettle clicked off, and he poured the boiling water into the coffee press with practiced hands. One scoop of coffee for him, one for Light, one for the dark circles underneath his eyes, as L sometimes said with a dry smirk.
He dialed on his phone before he could talk himself out of it.
It rang three times.
Then: "Moshi moshi?"
"Sayu?" he asked, blinking. Her voice took him by surprise.
"Nii-san!" she said brightly, almost too brightly. "Isn't it late there? How have you been?"
It always felt a bit odd, speaking Japanese now. The syllables hung heavier in the air, full of the weight of the past. Light leaned against the counter, pressing the phone tighter to his ear.
"I'm fine," he said. "A little busy, I guess. But nothing unusual. And you?"
"I'm fine. Well... you know..." Sayu hesitated, and her voice, which had sounded like sunlight, dimmed. "Mom went to the hospital today."
He straightened so fast the coffee press nearly fell out of his hand. "What? Why? What happened? Is she okay?"
"She's - - dad didn't tell you?"
"No," Light said, sharp, his voice now echoing louder in the large kitchen. "Sayu, please just tell me. Is she alright?"
Sayu was quiet for a long moment. Then: "She's... okay for now. But she didn't want to tell you. She said you were so busy... and the wedding..."
Light sat down heavily on the chair by the table. The mug he'd just poured sat untouched beside him, steaming into the silence.
"What's wrong with her?"
Sayu's voice wavered. "She's been having awful headaches lately. Today she completely lost her balance. They saw something on the brain scan - - maybe a mass. They're not sure yet."
The floor tilted under him.
"She's stable," Sayu added hurriedly, as though that could fix anything. "She's staying overnight and dad's with her. But... Light, I don't think it's nothing."
He swallowed. The coffee was burning hot when he drank it, and it scalded his throat.
"I'll call again," he said eventually. "... And you, Sayu. Are you alright?"
"Yeah... I'm... really okay." Sayu sniffed, not sounding alright. "Okay. She'll be glad to hear from you. I'll tell her you called."
They said goodbye, and Light sat there, the mug in both hands, as if it might anchor him.
The rain hadn't stopped.
He poured another mug and brought it back into the lounge. L was still on the sofa, though the laptop was closed now, and he was watching Light's approach like he already sensed that something was wrong.
Light sat down next to him, quietly offering the cup. L accepted it, holding it delicately between his pale fingers.
It took no more than a moment.
"You're upset," L said simply.
Light didn't answer.
"Was it your parents?"
Light nodded slowly. "My mother."
L turned fully, folding his legs under him, the mug forgotten. He was quiet. Light felt his own breath rattle unevenly as he tried to explain.
"She's... she's sick. Sayu said it might be... serious. She didn't say what exactly, but - - " His voice cracked. He bit down on it.
There was a rustle of fabric as L leaned forward, arms sliding around him. He rested his chin against Light's shoulder like it belonged there.
Light didn't move for a moment. Then, slowly, he leaned back into the touch.
"You should go see her," L said softly.
"I can't." The words came out without thinking.
"Yes, you can," L murmured. "You must."
Light pressed the heel of his hand to his eye. He hated the logic of it. Hated that even now he was thinking about flight schedules and applying for sudden leave and the logistics of last-minute international travel. "I... don't want to go alone."
L was very still behind him, and then: "You won't."
Light turned, looking at him properly. L's eyes were steady and dark, full of a quiet sincerity that made it to the surface.
"I'll come with you," he said. "If you'll let me."
And for the first time in ages, the tight knot in Light's chest loosened.
He nodded.
They sat like that for a long time - - two silhouettes on a sofa in their home, the rain tracing patterns on the windows, the coffee growing cold.
PART II
Later that morning, for a few disorienting minutes, Light forgot everything.
He blinked up at the ceiling, light flooding into the room from the tall sash windows of their bedroom. The cotton sheets felt cool beneath his bare back, and the warmth beside him - - absent. He reached instinctively to the left. Empty. Cold. A ghost of warmth, no more.
Then panic flooded him suddenly on remembering. He needed to go back to Japan. He needed to be with his family. His mother - - the person who had practically raised him alone while his father worked - - was in the hospital. He needed to...
Work.
A wave of panic surged up. He sat up too fast.
The sun was... off.
Wrong angle.
Wrong time.
Too bright to be morning.
He cursed aloud. "Damn."
His legs tangled in the covers as he tried to get up - - only to be stopped short with a loud metallic clink. His wrist jerked backward.
He looked down.
A handcuff. Clasped snugly around his left wrist. The other end, affixed to the heavy brass frame of the bed.
"What the hell - - L?"
Light yanked on the chain, but it was sturdy, tight. Predictably, he wasn't even surprised.
"L! Are you even home?!"
No answer.
Then: the faintest drip from the ensuite tap. And then silence again.
"Unlawfully restraining someone's freedom of movement is a crime of false imprisonment," Light snapped, voice rising. "Maximum penalty: life imprisonment!"
A moment passed.
Then L padded into the doorway, barefoot, holding a mug and a bowl. Sleep-tousled, hair curling at the ends, eyes calmly owlish.
"Is that a threat, dear future husband?"
"That's a 'get this handcuff the hell off me',"
L approached, setting the crockery down carefully. "In my defense, I only wanted to make sure you actually got some rest."
"I missed work, didn't I?"
"You weren't expected to show."
Light narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"
L sat on the edge of the bed. "You called in and explained about your family emergency. Made a perfectly reasonable request for time off. Definitely not aided by a voice modulator."
He lifted his phone. "Then Eraldo Coil - - brilliant man - - assisted the department by handing over a file that led directly to an arrest and a closed case based on evidence that was not at all fabricated, and sufficient, to finally arrest your main suspect; the guilty party."
"Eraldo Coil," Light said flatly. One of L's many aliases. "Of course."
"Highly competent. Though ethically flexible."
Light stared at him, long and hard. L shrugged, wide-eyed, as if butter wouldn't melt.
"Breakfast?"
Greek yoghurt with dark berries, toasted oats and almonds and a cup of tea.
"When was the last time we did this?" Light muttered. "Breakfast in bed."
"When was the last time you let yourself sleep more than three hours?"
Tart and sweet, crunchy and smooth. A slow, grounding rhythm to scoop and chew. When L judged it safe, he scooted close and laid his head gently on Light's knee. Light stared down at the soft mess of black hair, the way it curled at the nape of his neck. He exhaled.
"I didn't want to handcuff you," L murmured. "Not truly."
"Liar."
L's lips quirked, just barely. "Alright, perhaps I found it a little amusing. But you collapsed yesterday. You fell asleep talking."
Light poked him with the spoon. "Still not legal."
"I'd take a conviction over letting you burn yourself out."
They sat in silence for a while, the world beyond their windows far away.
"I was worrying about table decorations and dinner menus yesterday," Light said finally, voice low.
A pause.
"And I feel like I've wasted my time day by day," he admitted. "Fighting systems that won't change. Trying to play by the rules when criminals rewrite them every day."
"You're idealistic."
"Foolish."
"Idealistic," L said again, more firmly. "And a little arrogant, which is endearing if exhausting."
Light rolled his eyes. "Thanks."
"But not foolish. You believe justice matters. That's not stupid, Light."
L's hand found his.
Their fingers tangled.
"Handcuff," Light reminded him softly.
L reached behind the headboard and clicked a latch. The cuff popped open.
"It was fake?" Light said, surprised.
"Mock restraint," L said. "The release was always there. You just didn't look."
Light stared, flushed with embarrassment at not having been able to tell the difference, then groaned. "You absolute - - "
"Romantic?" L offered.
_________._________
The house was silent when Light ended another call with his sister. Not quiet - - silent. The kind of stillness that stretches itself through stairwells and seeps into the seams of a home. He tucked his phone into his back pocket and remained at the top of the stairs for a moment, one hand on the bannister, the other brushing over the faded paint of the wall. Sayu had sounded fine; calm in that practiced way people used when they wanted to reassure others more than themselves.
Light let out a slow breath and descended.
Halfway down, a familiar sound floated up to meet him - - a soft, crackling tune, warped slightly with age. A gramophone disc, by the sound of it, from that old player L insisted on keeping even though they'd long since upgraded to a wireless system. The melody was instantly familiar, because of what it had meant.
Their song.
The one they'd stumbled into dancing to that rainy April night in L's cluttered flat, years ago now, a barely lit room and a waltz that didn't quite match the beat. The same one they'd picked - - half-teasing, half-serious - - for their upcoming wedding.
At the foot of the stairs stood L. His posture, as ever, was a little too still to be natural, like a photograph come to life. His hair was damp, curling slightly from a recent shower, and he wore a loose shirt half-buttoned, sleeves pushed up in creases. In one pale hand, he extended a single invitation.
Light hesitated for a heartbeat, then crossed the last steps and took his hand.
They moved in unpractised rhythm, the kind that didn't need music at all. The recorder sounded softly in the background, but Light was already leaning in, resting his head against L's shoulder, eyes fluttering closed as the warmth of their closeness settled over him.
"Everything will be fine," L murmured, his voice low and certain against Light's ear, "if we're together."
Light said nothing for a moment, just felt the words settle in his chest like a smooth stone dropped in water.
"We're rarely together these days," he said finally, voice quiet.
"Then maybe everything's not fine," L replied, and it wasn't quite a question.
Light let his gaze fall to the floor, to the dust-soft rug under their feet. "That's just life," he mumbled. "I have a job. You're busy being... several different people. What else would we do?"
L's answer came not in words, but in motion. His pace slowed until they were barely swaying at all.
He leaned in and kissed the crown of Light's head, and in that second, the room - - the house, the trip, the world beyond the walls - - receded.
"The plane leaves tonight," L said softly. "We should pack."
But Light didn't move. Not away, anyway.
Instead, he stepped back, just enough to look L in the eyes, then pushed him - - firmly but not roughly - - back toward the piano. L caught himself on its edge, and the instrument answered with a disgruntled, discordant thump.
Light said nothing. He reached out, fingers sliding beneath the hem of L's shirt, dragging along skin that felt warmer than usual. The static buzz of the gramophone was still humming behind them, but even that seemed distant now. Light pulled L down by the collar and kissed him - -
The kiss deepened, slow and grounding, the kind that softened everything else around them - - sound, air, time. Light pressed his body flush to L's, fingers curling into the loose fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer until their breaths tangled.
L leaned back onto the piano, the instrument answering with a low, reverberating chord as their weight shifted. Light's hands slid beneath his shirt, grazing over warm skin, and L responded with a soft sound, almost a sigh, and brought a hand to cradle the back of Light's neck.
They had always done this like it was a secret - - half-stolen, half-sacred.
L's mouth moved to his temple, then to the edge of his jaw. A trail of kisses. His other hand found the hem of Light's shirt, and Light allowed it - - his breath hitching slightly as fabric lifted, exposing skin to air and touch.
Losing balance, Light's grip changed to the piano in front of him, fingers stumbling across the keys in a jagged, accidental chord as L pressed closer. His head tipped back, throat exposed to ceiling, mouth parted on a sound too soft to name.
"I miss you," he whispered, and it came out quieter than he meant.
L didn't answer - - not with words. He kissed the hollow of Light's throat, then his collarbone, then lower, kneeling with deliberate grace. His hands moved with practiced ease, reverent in their unhurried path. Light's fingers tightened in his hair, and for a moment, his world narrowed into heat and breath and the wild, relentless hum beneath his skin as L dragged his tongue against his erection.
"God," Light breathed.
"This isn't the time for prayer," L murmured, voice low.
"You are a goddamned prayer."
L drew back just slightly.
"Then like a prayer," he whispered, "should I bring you to your knees?"
Light didn't answer. His body did.
He let L guide him, lowered onto the rug. Light closed his eyes as L's mouth traced the side of his neck, down his chest. L didn't hurry. He never did. He kissed Light like he was memorising him all over again.
His eyes fluttered closed. Light could feel the pulse of his own blood thudding in his ears, his senses sharpening. His body curved into L's, instinctively drawing him closer, as if the proximity itself was something necessary. He barely had the energy to control his movements, only responding to the pull of L's touch.
L's mouth moved lower, and Light's hands gripped at the rug beneath him, trying to anchor himself, as L stretched him out with slick fingers, and he felt like he was slipping - - into him, into this, into a place where only the two of them existed.
"L," Light whispered, the sound low and breathless.
L's eyes flickered up to meet his, lips trailing up to Light's neck again, before pulling off his own shirt and unbuttoning his jeans. Light arched into him, unable to stop himself.
"Go slowly," Light whispered, his voice breaking, raw with want.
L's lips curved into a smile, and without a word, he moved lower, into Light, following the path his fingers had taken moments before.
The world narrowed to the rhythm between them, breath and skin and heat, until even time seemed to lose its grip. When the music finally faded into silence, they stayed like that - - wrapped in each other, chests rising and falling in sync, as if the space between them had never existed at all.
Light turned his face into the curve of L's neck and pressed a kiss there - - soft, lingering. L's arms tightened in response, holding him as if letting go was never an option.
_________._________
His suitcase lay open on the bed like a wound. Shirts lay folded, then unfolded. Then folded again. Ties rolled and unrolled like tiny accusations. He'd packed it once. Then twice. Now the third attempt lay strewn across the duvet like the aftermath of a storm.
He stood at the foot of the bed in his socks, hair damp from the shower, holding a pair of trousers in one hand and a dog-eared copy of The Brothers Karamazov in the other. A sigh escaped him.
What did one pack when returning home? Not for a visit. Not for a job. Not even for a holiday. Just... a return. A return to the country that had raised him, and shaped him, and hopefully didn't bring a new tragedy.
"L," he called, pushing hair back from his face, "have you seen my - - ?"
"It's on the top shelf in the wardrobe," came the reply, muffled from the ensuite, "to the left, at the back."
Light blinked. His hand froze on the book. He walked to the wardrobe, opened the tall white door, and - - yes, exactly where L had said - - was the maroon sweater from his To-Oh University days. Still folded neatly. Still holding the ghost of late-night study sessions and questionable instant ramen.
He carried it to the bathroom.
L stood at the sink, a towel slung over his head, scrubbing his hair in a manner that was half-efficient, half-animal. His pale shoulders hunched slightly as he leaned over the sink. His reflection in the mirror blinked slowly at Light as he entered.
"Okay," Light said, holding the sweater like evidence, "how did you even know what I was going to ask for?"
L's eyes flicked to the item, then to Light.
"You sighed three times," he said, as if it were obvious. "Once looking at your suitcase. Once at your bookshelf. Once when you touched your neck - - nostalgic, familiar comfort. The sweater's fabric smells faintly of that cologne you only wore in university. I deduced."
"Sometimes your deductive abilities are just way too creepy."
L almost - - almost - - smiled. The barest twitch at the corner of his lips.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Light stared at the sweater, then at L, then back again, as if the two were both spectral reminders of strangeness. He shook his head.
He didn't rest before the flight.
L did - - curled under the covers, a passport balanced on the edge of the nightstand.
The taxi to Heathrow was cramped, their suitcase wedged between Light's legs after insisting there was no space in the trunk, and L sipping something too sweet from a thermos mug he'd brought.
The airport was bedlam.
Families shouted. Children clung to toys and overstuffed backpacks. Intercoms screeched, and the smell of chaos clung to the very air. Light kept one hand in his coat pocket and the other firmly on the back of L's hoodie. Somehow, L always managed to drift like fog wherever they went - - half-there, half-elsewhere.
At the check-in desk, Light passed over their passports.
The man behind the counter flipped them open, glanced from passport to person with the usual, tired suspicion of someone who had worked one holiday season too many. Then he paused.
"Mr. Yagami," he said, flicking his eyes up to L. "And Mr. Yagami."
Light's stomach flipped as he stared at them opened.
He took the documents back with practiced calm and led L away from the desk. Only once they were past a rack of travel pillows shaped like various animals did he turn and whisper:
"Yagami? Okay, first of all, that's the first time you've used a given name even close to your real one. And second, we didn't decide which last name we'd take."
"I decided," L said mildly, eyes flicking to a neck-pillow shaped like a flamingo. "I'm taking yours."
Light blinked. "Although I'm flattered, this has to be a mutual decision."
L stopped walking. Light nearly bumped into him.
"Can we mutually agree," L said, eyes fixed on Light's with a rare, bare openness, "that I love you so much, I want a part of you as my own?"
It was like being hit in the chest and offered a flower all at once.
Light flushed. It rose warm and unforgiving in his cheeks. "You really think I might not want to take yours for the same reason?"
"I considered it," L said, taking his hand. "But I wanted yours more."
Light didn't usually do public displays of affection. It wasn't just a Japanese thing - - though, certainly. It was more than that. Love was a private thing to him. To be displayed was to invite commentary. To invite commentary was to show weakness.
And Light Yagami never showed weakness.
But he let L hold his hand. Even when a man walking past gave them a glance. Even when the warmth in his palm made his heart thump louder than he liked.
On the plane, Light sat by the window. London was a quilt of grey and green beneath them, shrinking as they climbed.
L curled beside him, head on his shoulder. Their hands were still laced, fingers gently fitted like puzzle pieces. Light stared out the window, past the engine, past the clouds.
He thought about his family. His mother's texts had been full of excitement about their wedding and visiting England lately. Although now that he thought of it, she had been complaining about regular headaches, just like Sayu had said. His father, too had kept in contact - - more formal, but cautiously warm. Sayu had tried to tell him not to worry and that everything was okay. She sent a picture of the puppy she'd adopted two months ago, with a caption that read: Mom's still in hospital. But she'll come back tomorrow. I hope you're bringing that smart fiancé of yours.
Light smiled faintly.
He thought about his old room. Whether it had changed. Whether it hadn't. The plum tree outside the window. The sound of cicadas in July.
He thought about his life in Winchester - - the house that always smelled faintly of coffee and sweets, L's habit of watching crime dramas with the subtitles on during his very rare breaks from work, the chalkboard in their far-too-neglected greenhouse where they left coded messages in Greek.
He thought about all the things he had to return to - - and all the things he was bringing back with him.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked quietly.
L blinked one eye open. "Do what?"
"Come with me."
L yawned, very slightly, then curled closer. "Light," he said into his shoulder, "I'm used to running global investigations, often powered by little more than caffeine. I think I'm capable of handling a twelve-hour flight and meeting your family."
"But," he added, lifting his head to meet Light's gaze, "I'm not here to handle it. I'm here because you want me to be. Because you're going home, and I want to come with you."
Light turned back to the window. The clouds outside were a soft white sea now, endless and slow.
"Thank you," he murmured.
L didn't reply. He only leaned his head back onto Light's shoulder and fell asleep, his breath warm against his collarbone.
Later, somewhere over Siberia, Light dreamt of plum blossoms falling like snow.
When he woke, L had stolen half his blanket and was holding his wrist. The in-flight map blinked blue at him: five hours until Tokyo.
He lay back against the seat and closed his eyes, heart strangely light.
For the first time, he wasn't returning to his old home alone.