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It isn’t sex. Not really.
Light decides this before they begin.
Their room is moonlit, the curtains tugged haphazardly shut — this high up, there’s no need to worry overmuch about privacy. L is a dark shape in the night, a pile of sheets and limbs. The chain trails from his wrist to Light’s.
Light lies awake, looking.
He can admit this to himself: he had made an error. He has wanted.
He’s not sure when it happened. But it had. He’d grown fond of L’s tangled limbs, of his wry smile; he’s grown to know the way L’s hair brushes against his neck, highlighting that long pale stretch of skin. It’s not fair and it’s not right but it came upon him anyway.
He can hear the air conditioner unit whirring. Apart from that, the headquarters are silent.
In the dark, he reaches for the chain. He tugs, very gently.
L stirs.
He tugs a little harder. L makes a soft sound, then turns towards him,
“What is it, Light-kun?” His voice is raspy from sleep. It sounds more masculine than it does in the day, that airy tone absent.
Light doesn’t say anything. He only pulls the chain.
L huffs out a breath and pulls his wrist back.
“Light-kun will have to use his words.”
Light-kun does not want to use his words. Instead he shifts closer, following that silver line until he can feel L’s breath on him, can feel the heat of his body emanating. L smells like the same cheap soap they both use, now. Strawberry-scented. It’s ridiculous, far too on the nose, but right now Light doesn’t mind.
L watches him, his eyes wide in the dark.
Gently, Light reached towards him. He touches his waist.
L does not pull away.
It’s not intimacy. It’s something else.
Wordless, Light moves closer. He presses their bodies together, then slips one leg between L’s.
L breathes out.
He does not stop him.
Carefully, Light begins to move. Up and down. Just slightly.
L’s groin is so hot beneath the thin fabric of his pyjamas, Light’s sweatpants. It feels good. After a moment Light can feel him hardening.
“What is Light-kun doing,” L says, very softly. “He’s not — ah—“
L lets out a soft sound and Light knows.
They are just the same. They want together.
“It’s nothing,” Light tells him. His voice comes out caramel-smooth, steadier than he’s expected. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It’s late. We should be sleeping,” L says, as if this were a meaningful objection, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop Light. Instead he places his own hand on Light’s waist.
Light moves a little quicker, a little harder. L lets out a low groan, then presses back against him.
Light has done this before, a handful of times, wordless in the dark with boys he hadn’t looked in the eye the next day; it hadn’t meant anything then, either. It’s easy to find a rhythm, slow and deep as he hardens, as L grows against him.
L lets out a whine and Light looks up. His eyes are closed. He begins to move, too, and Light’s stomach trills at the idea that he can draw these noises out of him.
It’s nothing. It’s nothing. He rubs against him and feels the heat pool between his thighs, feels himself leaking. It feels good. It feels simple.
He buries his face in L’s throat. He does not kiss him but he lets his lips whisper across his skin and L lets out another soft noise.
The fabric of their clothes, of the sheets they’re still buried in, is a whisper around him. He rocks deep.
The heat is growing heavier, more insistent.
He’s going to come. He can tell. As easy as this. In the daylight he’d be embarrassed but he isn’t now; he only feels good. He whines into L’s throat to let him know and somehow L seems to understand because he winds his arms around him.
“I’ve got you,” L whispers, and Light lets go.
He breathes out and lets his rhythm grow quicker against L’s, frantic for just one moment, then presses hard against him and gives his body over to shudders, feels wetness pool inside his underwear; it should be mortifying but it isn’t.
“Oh —“ says L.
Light pulls away. He looks up at L.
L’s eyes are wide. He’s watching him with something like awe.
“It’s nothing,” Light whispers.
“Oh,” L says, very softly. “Light. You know that’s not true.”
Then he pulls Light close and wraps his arms around him. The chain is cold where it brushes against his arms; L’s body is hot around him.
“I’ve got you,” L says again, even softer this time.
Light should protest. He should tell L — it wasn’t sex. It was only two bodies in the night, clothed in the dark, and it doesn’t count. It doesn’t. Instead he buries his face in L’s chest. He doesn’t think. He only allows the warmth to lull him into sleep.