Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time he'd seen them, he was 8.

He was walking with his mother, Sachiko, to the grocery store just a 15 minute walk from the house to pick up some eggs. He'd been extroverted and polite as always, carrying the eggs for his mother - all the way to the register.

The woman at the register scanned the carton, and placed it in a bag for them. Whilst Light was grabbing the bag, he'd noticed something.

The woman, her arms - littered with lines of pink and white, textured to bevel upwards along each scar. Trying to be polite, despite being curious, he'd simply asked if she got into a fight with a cat. The most reasonable explanation, in his mind.

His mother had apologized before she could even respond. She assured her it was fine, and pat little 8 year old Light on the back, nodding and smiling at him sweetly. Though her reaction was completely tame, it did not spare him from the lecturing behind closed doors.

~

The second time he'd seen them, he was 13.

A little older now, he'd begun to understand the implications of what they meant. The scars, carefully, or not carefully scattered all over a new boy in his class' left forearm, left shoulder, and both thighs - quite clearly intentional. Though, a bit old.

Despite trying to be polite, he'd often catch himself staring. He'd tell himself it was not kind to stare, if he was covered in scars like that, would he want people staring at them all the time?

The answer is no. But intelligent minds seek to learn.

He just could not fathom how somebody could do that to themselves. How could one deliberately tear open their skin, knowing it could leave lifelong scars and stares their way? What, truly, could bring somebody to do that?

So, Light, ever the curious - simply, asks.

He asks the boy why he'd hurt himself. Not sympathetic or pitiful, just, curious. Why?

The boy, long, dark hair that covered half of an eye, with blue jeans and a white long-sleeve shirt, seemed to understand his curiosity. 

~

The third time he'd seen them, he was 14.

And they were scattered all over his thighs.

He'd figured, well, if people my age have done it, I should be able to as well. It surely must be normal, then. As long as I keep it under wraps, he reminded himself.

He'd showed up to school that day with a slight limp. He'd gone deep for his first time, he thinks. If he's the best at school, it surely has to apply the same to self-harm, right?

Right?

Sure, to the average outsider, it seems unreasonable, there's no such thing as being "good" at self-harm. It doesn't matter how deep you go, you're still valid. At the end of the day, you're still intentionally harming yourself.

But, really, who is that fooling?

When you're in the state of mind of wanting to hurt yourself, it is a competition. It's a battle with your own thoughts. Going deeper = getting worse. The human mind is a fragile thing, especially for somebody like Light - his intelligence was bound to screw him over some day. He was born doomed. He was born unfixable.

The boy, Ryuzaki, the one with the scars, he thought to himself - had approached him at lunch. Inquiring as to why he'd been limping in gym. Wincing when he moved too quickly, hands ghosting over his thighs. He'd stared at Light with those big, knowledgeable eyes - ones he was intrigued by, and Light almost told the truth just at the sight of the boy himself.

He feigns it as being tired, maybe a twisted ankle, or a bruised knee. Ryuzaki accepted the response, but Light couldn't help but feel his gaze boring directly into his mind, viewing his memories and finding out the truth.

He'd noticed him staring for the rest of the day.

~

(12 may)

drip, drip, drip 

Scarlet red decorates the pale beige tiling on the Yagami bathroom floor. Light, barely present, swipes again, and again, and again, in the same spot on his left arm, relishing in the hot flashes and adrenaline rushes he gets with each swipe. He's shaking so badly he can barely see.

He should be upset with himself.

He's been clean for 4 months today. 4. That's 4 entire months without carrying through with his selfish desires to carve into his skin and play his tendons like the strings of his heart. It's taken everything inside of him and more to not carry through with it.

Every. Day.

Every day feels like a losing battle. A losing battle that never really ends. A losing battle where he knows the outcome, he knows that eventually, he will fall - but he will just barely get back up again and repeat it over and over and over. A losing battle that tears him apart from the inside out until he's a bleeding, shaky mess.

89 days he's held this time, he couldn't even make it to 90. Fucking pathetic.

However, this time, he swore he'd make the relapse count.

It's a morbid concept, really, to make a relapse "count". He didn't want to waste the death of a milestone to a few lousy scratches. No, scratches are not enough for Light. They will never be enough again.

He stops after an hour of hacking and sawing away at his flesh, leaving a massive gaping wound in his wake. He studies it, realizes he can barely feel the pain anymore. Numb.

He internally praises himself. This one went well. He made this relapse actually count. The fat under his skin blossoms from where he'd tore it open, a passageway into the thoughts that come with this sort of thing. Every time he'll stare at this gash in the future, he'll be reminded of how fucked up he really was. Maybe he doesn't mind it. In fact, he smiles just thinking about it.

He does his breathing exercises. Tries to coax his body to come down from the adrenaline high.

It barely works.

He patches himself up with shaky and unsteady hands, disinfecting the wound with whatever he could find in the first aid kit. He applies some cream his father had been prescribed when he got a nasty gash in his hand all around the wound. He prays. He prays to any god that will listen, to not give up on him yet.

He finishes by applying a large bandage across the surface of the cut, and then wraps a gauze around it a few times. He knows it will soak through in no time. He knows he will be back in this same exact spot tomorrow, patching himself up all over again.

He knows that this will not be the last time.

Chapter Text

beep, beep, beep

Light groans as he's awoken. The first cracks of sunlight peek through closed blinds, swaying trees casting shadows along his room.

He breathes out and forces himself to sit up. It feels as if he's chained to his bedpost today, which is unusual. The model student typically rose flawlessly, because, who would he be if not perfect?

He trails his fingers along his left arm, covered by bandage. He peels his black sleeve back to find a disgusting, soaked through mess. He sighs and buries his face in his hands. He really doesn't want to deal with this.

He bites back tears as he gets out of bed and opens his blinds. He does his breathing exercises as he unwraps his arm, trying to stifle a panic attack at the overwhelm of dealing with all of...this.

In for 4. He looks at the gaping, raw and bloody wound for a moment. Studies it whilst trying to figure out how the hell he's going to help this thing heal. Hold for 4. He walks to the bathroom and takes out the first aid kit from last night. Out for 4.

He disinfects. Sits against the wall. Wipes the dried blood from his arm. It hurts. God, it fucking hurts.

He reminds himself that he did this. He asked for this. Practically begged for it. He begged to be good at the one thing that he has control over. It worked, though, something dark whispers to him.

The moment he feels his breathing quicken, he leans his head against the wall and shuts his eyes. He can't afford to have a panic attack today. Especially not now.

He takes a moment or two to calm himself down before continuing. He finishes cleaning the wound and re-wraps it in 2 layers of bandage. He needs it to be pristine, otherwise it will leak through his white uniform.

He takes a final breath and stands up. He nearly collides with the counter on his way up at a sudden wave of dizziness. What the fuck?

This wasn't even the worst he'd done. He's surely done deeper before. Maybe just one or two times, but he's still never felt this lightheaded from a single cut. He braces himself against the counter for a moment before continuing into his bedroom once again, dark spots clouding his vision, composure slightly shakier than how he'd entered.

~

He arrives to school 3 minutes later than he would've liked. Normally he arrives around 15 minutes early so he has time to settle himself before starting with his day.

He'd decided to pack extra bandages with him in his bag, in case of emergency. He's also found himself checking the surface of his sleeve every 2 minutes, itching it and being unable to rip his gaze away from the implications of what rests beneath it.

His first classes pass in a blur. He's sure he hasn't retained any information at all, and before he knows it - it's lunch.

He steps out onto the roof, a sigh of relief escaping him as he makes contact with the cold. He slips his coat on and makes his way over to a bench, the cold biting at his ears and nose as he walks against the early spring winds.

Not many people enjoy coming out here whilst the weather is still cold, so he has the space to himself. It's just him and the remnants of winter whistling in the air around him.

He opens his bag to grab his English textbooks, setting them next to him, next taking out his bento box. He opens the lid and snacks on some smaller items whilst revising some vocabulary.

He's partway through the items and objects section when he hears a rustle behind the doors. He looks up to see a peculiar boy walking towards him. The scarred boy, he thought to himself.

He knew, ethically, that it was wrong to think of another human being like that. Objectifying, maybe? Degrading? Only recognizing someone from their struggles seems as if that's all he thinks of the man. Which, honestly, would not be far off - that's the only information he has on the boy, he's barely talked to him at all. He only has what he can visually percept. And that is a whole lot of keloid scars. And the desire to get worse than that boy once was.

He racks his mind for a name. With an R, he remembers. Ryuk, or Rin, or...Ryuga?

His train of thought is quickly interrupted by the growing closeness of the man. He blinks and the boy is sitting directly next to him. Light glances at the boy, who's sitting too close for comfort. He doesn't say a word.

There are plenty of other benches, surely he noticed them. Besides, is it not awkward to sit next to somebody who is clearly studying and somebody you've barely talked to? Although, from what he's seen, the boy doesn't seem to pick up on social queues very well.

They sit there in silence for a moment, before the boy speaks up.

"Yagami...Light," he says quietly, staring over at him with his large eyes. Light meets them only for a moment before turning back towards his textbooks, jotting something down. "That's my name," he says plainly, audibly uncomfortable.

"I was unsure when to contact you," he says, his Japanese pronunciation absolutely immaculate, though his vocabulary choices odd. Not wrong, per se, just...odd. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something in particular. But I haven't been able to find you any time after school. You leave quickly, I cannot catch up." He says, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. Light grimaces.

Was he a stalker? Did he have some kind of weird obsession towards him? Or, no...maybe he'd found out about the cutting. Fuck, maybe he hadn't been careful enough. Maybe he'd shown up one day without hiding his limp by accident. Or...or maybe he'd seen the red drop on his arm that one time his bandages bled through. Or maybe he'd accidentally rolled his sleeves up and hadn't noticed? They do share a class, and sit next to each other, maybe he hasn't been as careful as he thought? Oh god, what if he's going to tell everybody? Or worse, the administration, or-

"I was wondering about the English assignment."

Thank fucking god.

Light exhales shakily. "Which one?" He asks, much calmer now, still writing in his workbook. "Ah, the new one. Mrs. Smith does not explain it well, she refuses to acknowledge the fact that I do not understand her wording, and instead she explains it the same way each time. I figured, you have the highest marks in the class, so I should ask you."

Light nods. Mrs. Smith does tend to do that. He thinks it might be because of her language barrier, but he doesn't mention it. "Yes... of course. What don't you understand, exactly?"

The odd boy continues to drone on about what he doesn't understand. Light tries to find a way to explain it to him that will best suit his processing skills, which do seem quite advanced - just...different.

After he's finished explaining to him the best he can, the boy bows slightly and gets up. "Thank you, Light-kun," he says quietly, and Light swears he sees a flicker of a smile appear on the boy's face.

"It's no worries. Oh, and, my apologies - what's your name again?" He asks with every ounce of 'innocent top of class school boy' stereotype he can muster. Though, he realizes he doesn't really mind if the boy finds him odd. He'd be one to think that.

"Hm. Ryuzaki," he says, even quieter. Light nearly misses it altogether. He nods at him and finally the boy turns and leaves, leaving Light alone, once again, in the cold.

He wasn't wearing a coat, he thinks to himself.

~

It's the last period of the day. P.E. The most dreaded block for some people, but for Light - he didn't mind it all that much. Some reasons you might hear when someone in his year enjoys P.E. is one of 2 reasons, typically. They want to impress girls, or they want to impress boys.

However, Light simply sees it as another class just like any other academic within the day. A percentage on his report card, a tally on a sheet.

Sweat dribbles down his temples as he scrambles for the basketball, tossing it towards the hoop, unsurprised when it falls through with a swish. Students cheer from the bleachers, whooping and whistling. He nods at his teammate as they continue the game.

After a few more minutes, he switches with another player. He sits on the bleachers, completely out of breath, panting and sweating profusely.

He'd been so focused on catching his breath that he hadn't even noticed the boy, Ryuzaki, from earlier, come up beside him.

"Light-kun," he begins, staring at him with his large eyes.

"Oh- Ryuzaki," he greets, nodding gently.

"You're bleeding."

"What?"

He looks down at his arm, noticing a plume of red sprouting on his white sleeve.

Fuck.

Light gets up without another word, rushing over to the locker rooms. Too distracted to even check if the boy was following him. He rushes inside, relieved to find it empty, quickly going over to his locker to rummage through his bag. A-ha. He pulls out the bandage from the back pocket and checks behind him for any people.

"Light-kun."

"Jesus christ," he huffs, wiping his forehead. "Could you please leave?" He asks, unable to come up with a good excuse in such a short time and unstable mindset.

"I am actually well practiced in first aid, you know. What's the matter?" He asks, crouching in front of Light, whom is now sitting on a bench.

"Ryuzaki, I'm fine. Seriously. Go back outside," he can feel his breathing picking up and he really doesn't want any witnesses for the inevitable panic attack he's about to go through. "Please. Just leave," he says, rubbing a hand against his chest, pain suddenly sprouting there.

"No. You are in an unstable mindset, it would be unwise to leave you now," he says, and in that moment - Light understands, that Ryuzaki knows exactly what's going on here. "No, I-" He swallows, panting harder. "It would be better...for...for me, if you- just- please fucking leave," he bites, bowing his head down to try to catch his breath.

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder. Then, before he can protest, on his arm, tugging the sleeve up. "Hm," he hears from the boy, and for some reason, he lets him work. He doesn't push him away or yell at him, he lets him access his injuries.

With gentle touches, he unwraps the soaked bandages and discards them aside. He seems to ponder over the wound for a moment, and Light can see the gears turning in his brain as he assesses how to take care of it with such limited supplies. God, what the fuck has he gotten himself into?

Ryuzaki isn't stupid. He probably knew from the moment he'd seen the blood on his sleeve that it was self-harm. He's obviously dealt with it himself before, he clearly knows what signs to look for.

Despite Light's greatest efforts to fight off the panic attack, he finds himself panting and shaking, tears rolling down his cheeks as he allows the boy to clean him up. He's still rubbing a hand over his chest, the tight pain constricting his breathing and making everything more uncomfortable than it already is for him.

Light feels a hand that's probably supposed to be reassuring land on his knee. It rubs back and forth and it nearly makes Light break more than he already has. He looks up from his teary, panicky haze to see Ryuzaki staring right at him with his big, tired eyes.

"It's going to be okay, Light-kun," is all he says in a quiet, hushed voice. "I will help you."

Light sobs. Not a noise alike to anything he's managed to make since he was a child. A true, pained, heartbroken sob.

He watches as Ryuzaki gets up from his spot next to him, and grabs his own bag to bring it over. He opens it and brings out some wipes and cream, placing it on the bench next to him. Gentle fingers wipe at the raw wound, and Light all but yelps, biting his fist. Ryuzaki doesn't apologize. He continues working to clean the injury, and once he deems it clean, he applies a cream around it (not before wiping his hands, of course).

It hurts. It hurts more than anything imaginable, but he endures it - panting and shaking by the end of it. Ryuzaki finishes by gently wrapping his arm in the soft gauze that Light had brought.

"Do you have a change of shirt?" The boy asks, tugging his sleeve back over his now clean arm to see the red splotch all over again. Light nods, taking a deep breath. His breathing had calmed down by now, he's now mainly just shaky and out of it.

Ryuzaki stands, packing the supplies back into his bag.

"You know, Light-kun..."

He hums quietly.

"You will recover."

Light wants to cry all over again.

Ryuzaki doesn't seem to be bothered by the lack of response. He reaches back into his bag and pulls out a pen and paper, jotting something down onto it. He hands the slip to Light and nods at him. "Please contact me if you ever need me again. I understand what you're going through more than anybody here. It will be okay in the end."

Light exhales shakily, taking the slip. He bows softly. "Thank you for today, Ryuzaki. But I can manage," he says, wringing his hands out by his side and picking up his bag from the floor. 

The boy nods, but there's something else behind it. Like he doesn't believe him. Like he sees right through him. The bell sounds, and he nods once more before leaving the locker room. 

That night, Light does not hurt himself.

Chapter Text

It's been 3 weeks since the incident in P.E. with Ryuzaki.

Light has kept the self-harm to a controlled minimum since then, sticking to his thighs and not going any deeper than dermis.

His arm gash is still red and angry, nowhere near finished healing. It's scabbed and is irritated by anything that comes into contact with it. It's mostly stopped oozing by now, so he's just kept thin protective layers over it to keep it clean and to prevent fuzz from getting inside.

His father had nearly found out. Came inside his room just as he slipped his pyjama shirt over his head. He warned Light that the weather was getting warmer, and to not wear long sleeves all the time. Light had nodded and said goodnight, but fell asleep an hour late, his mind racing with possible scenarios.

Aside from that, he's hid his limp well. He has not spoken to Ryuzaki since the incident, though he catches him staring quite often. The boy seems to have no shame at all in that matter - often catching him staring at him for minutes at a time.

He's made it known through body language and tone that he does not want to speak to him after what had happened. Just because he'd helped him through his moment of weakness, it absolutely does not mean Light wants to continue talking to him.

Their longest and most memorable interaction was of Light at his lowest. He doesn't want to interact with somebody knowing that's the only thing he thinks of when he sees him. Light is so much more than that. So much better.

As of late, he's begun packing blades with him hidden in his bag. It looks innocent enough, a pocket-sized box cutter in his pencil kit. Could be easily excused as an everyday tool.

He's only ever cut at school once. After a test he hadn't felt the best about. 3 dermis cuts next to each other in an organized formation. Single file, he'd thought. Nothing less of perfect, less of organized.

He ended up getting a 98 on that test. He'd relapsed the night he'd gotten it back.

Today, he might make it his second time.

Normally, subtly, during school hours he keeps earplugs lodged in his ears. Unnoticeable unless you search for them. He's always been a bit sensitive to noise, finding it harder to focus - and he couldn't let something as little as some noise get in the way of his academics.

Today, he'd somehow forgotten them at home.

Typically, this wouldn't be that big of an issue. He might not get as much done at school as usual, but he would normally make up for it at home. But today, it's different.

For some reason, everybody has picked today to be extra loud. And no, he doesn't just think that because he doesn't have his earplugs - he feels like everybody knows and is purposefully being louder than usual.

He tries his best to act composed, stimming quietly under his desk by tapping his fingers and wringing his hands, trying to not attract any unwanted attention. L glances at him odd, but Light figures that's related to his typical staring.

His imagination begins to distract him.

Each time someone coughs, or yells, or laughs a little too loud - he imagines dragging another cut along his thigh, each deeper than the last. He's so entranced in his train of thought that he doesn't realize Ryuzaki trying to get his attention.

"Light. Light!" He feels a tap on his shoulder, and that's when he snaps out of his train of thought, his head whipping around to see Ryuzaki standing next to his desk.

"Sorry. I was zoned out," he says, scratching at his arm, his voice distant.

"You should step outside for a moment," he says in his typical monotone voice. Light tilts his head at him. "Why?" He asks plainly, trying to seem as composed as possible.

"You are overstimulated," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I can tell." He adds.

Light opens his mouth, ready to argue, but it comes out weaker and hesitant. "You...you need to stop worrying about me. I'm not as fragile as you think I am, I can handle a noisy classroom."

Ryuzaki looks him up and down. "You're shaking."

Light looks down at his hands, seeing the obvious tremble. He takes a shaky breath and swallows, accepting his defeat and following the boy out of the class.

They sit on a bench, Ryuzaki sitting a bit too close for comfort. They haven't spoken since the incident. "You know, Light," the boy begins, chewing on his thumb. Light personally found it a bit childish. "You need to be careful."

Light scoffs. "What do you mean?" He tilts his head, offended. As if he doesn't know his own limits. He always comes prepared.

"I mean, you need to realize when things are too much. Believe me, I know what you're going through well. If you don't take good care of yourself, you will relapse again." Ryuzaki says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. Like it's common knowledge, kindergarten level simplicity, he should understand it without a second thought.

But it's not. It's complicated. The human mind is a fragile thing, especially Light's - despite his smarts, he hasn't even begun to understand the depths of his mind. Why he can do what he does. Why his brain is too powerful for its own good, in the way that it's begun destroying itself from the inside out. Why he can't stop it, why he encourages it. Enjoys it, even.

"Why are...why do you talk to me about this stuff? We've only met once, Ryuzaki. You know that just because you happened to see me when I was struggling, that doesn't mean that I now need you for all this shit. It doesn't work like that," he huffs, his knee bouncing. "I mean," he sighs.

"You think I don't understand my own limits. I know them all too well. I realize when I'm overwhelmed, and I do something about it," he says, scoffing afterwards. Ryuzaki is silent for a moment.

"You don't always do the right thing about it."

Light grimaces. Who the hell does this guy think he is? They've met once. This is pissing him off.

"What the hell do you know about me? We've talked once," he bites - getting annoyed. Ryuzaki stares at him with those large, black eyes. "I know that..." he pauses, looking away and biting his thumb.

"I know that I see myself in you, Light-kun. In many ways."

~

That day, Ryuzaki joins him on the roof again. Light sighs when he notices him trailing behind him, holding an unopened lollipop. They sit in silence for the entirety of lunch, only exchanging non-verbal communications throughout. They sit in peace side by side, and Light almost understands a part of him.

Maybe they are alike in some way.

~

After lunch, it's maths.

Typically, Light excels in maths - and today is absolutely no different. He sits and focuses on the teacher, everything should feel normal. But it doesn't. He's still on edge from earlier, he finds himself absentmindedly scratching at his thighs. A sign he knows the meaning of all too well.

He really should wait until he goes home. But that's hours away, and he has cram school, so the pros outweigh the cons. Plus, he's gotten the idea in his head now - so there's no going back. His mind goes on autopilot, he scribbles in the corner of his page absentmindedly - his mind filling with flashes of pure bliss and adrenaline, the moment before the gash fills with blood playing on repeat in his mind. Clean and pure, white space under his skin.

Before he can even think about it, he's asking to use the bathroom and stuffing the box cutter into his pocket. Fuck.

He really shouldn't, not at school. He has more materials to clean himself up at home, at school he only has some gauze that's running low, and the school toilet paper to soak up the blood. He couldn't properly take care of anything that wasn't shallow dermis. He swallows as he tears apart the box cutter, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet seat. He takes a deep breath, taking the blade and pressing it against his arm. Fuck it.

He swipes, controlled, and watches as blood slowly trickles into the new cut. He goes again. And again. And again. Until he's a shaky mess, and blood is dripping down his arm. He presses once more, taking a deep breath and swiping. Upon taking one glance at the newly formed wound, he'd realized he'd fucked up big time.

He pulls his shaky hand away, staring at the cut. A wave of adrenaline washes over him, he's shaking horribly - warmth pooling near his chest. It's way too deep to take care of at school. He tries to stave off a panic attack, swallowing and breathing as slow as he can, whilst also trying to figure out how the fuck he's going to deal with this.

He pokes around the cut a little more, after soaking up the blood to get a better look at the depth, he notices a concerning amount yellowish fat peeking through the gash. His heart drops once again. Fuck fuck fuck.

He curses under his breath, quickly getting up and opening the toilet lid to hold his arm over, so the quickly bleeding cuts don't drip all over the floor. In a haze of panic, he manages to put the box cutter back together with shaky hands (after much trial and error), and stuff it back into his pocket. He pulls out his phone. He opens Ryuzaki's contact and hesitates. He could take care of this on his own. He could stave off the bleeding with toilet paper and then wrap his arm in a thick layer of gauze. He should be fine, right?

Fuck, who is he kidding. This cut is far deeper than the one that'd bled through even after a day. It probably will bleed through. And then he'll deal with even larger repercussions.

He hovers his fingers over the keyboard. Types something. Deletes it. Types something else. He exhales shakily, and presses send. Fuck.

He's panting now, he feels lightheaded and dizzy - waves of nausea crashing over him as he tries to calm himself down. But he can't calm himself down, not when he knows that he's at school and he can only stay in the bathroom for so long until people start looking, and-

"Shit, Light-" Ryuzaki opens the (unlocked?) door to the sight of Light over the toilet, blood pouring down his arm and into the water. Shit.

"Okay. Stay calm, okay Light? Just breathe for a moment. Just breathe," Ryuzaki takes a moment to just rub his back slowly to try to coax his breathing slower. It barely works. Whilst calming him down, he reaches into his bag that he'd previously discarded on the floor, trying to shimmy beside him in the cramped stall so that he can reach his bleeding arm. "Fuck, Light," he breathes out upon taking a closer look at the wound. It's deep and angry, nearly spurting blood at the rate it's bleeding. He looks closer, and realizes that theres a fucking pulse in it.

"Shit," Ryuzaki turns Light towards himself. "Okay, Light, you with me?" Light nods through quick breaths. "Listen, I think you might've hit something, I'm thinking an arteriole or...something of the sorts," Ryuzaki bites his lip until he tastes metal.

This...is going to take way longer than the time that they have, Ryuzaki quickly realizes. He does not have the right supplies to deal with this, he doesn't have a skin stapler or stitches on hand, not even butterfly strips - he has some cream and bandages, and that's about it.

"Light...we..." he swallows. "I think we should come up with an...alibi of sorts," he suggests gently, unusual for the typically monotone man.

"Like..like what? I got attacked by a fucking cat? I don't think- that- that's gonna work in this situation," Light pants, holding a hand over his chest. 

"No, like- I'm unsure right now. I'll figure it out. The most important thing right now is to make sure you're not going to bleed out," he says, grabbing a towel from his backpack and applying pressure on his arm with two hands.

"Fuck, I- I need to go back to class...they...they're going to wonder where I am, they'll come looking for me, they-"

"Light. It's okay. Don't think about that right now, I will handle it if it comes to that. Just applying pressure will take at least 10 minutes, so just focus on breathing and staying calm, okay? You're going to be okay."

Light whines, and opens his mouth as if he's about to retort, but instead, he gags.

"Shit," Ryuzaki mutters, removing a hand from the towel to guide Light's head over the toilet just in time for Light to spew a portion of whatever he'd eaten for lunch that day into the toilet. "That's it," L says, not even grimacing or looking away, just continuing to apply pressure to his arm. "Just breathe, Light-kun."

Eventually, Light recovers, and 10 minutes later Ryuzaki finally deems it appropriate to remove the towel to check on the wound. He's met with a disgustingly deep wound, but it's not bleeding. He lets out a sigh of relief and places a hand on his back. "Light, I have to warn you," Ryuzaki begins. Light looks up at him miserably, practically passed out on the toilet seat. "This will hurt a lot. You might feel nauseous or lightheaded from the pain, okay? This is normal. I will stop if needed."

The next 20 minutes are spent disinfecting, vomiting, and hyperventilating before Ryuzaki finally decides to give him a break. Light's collapsed onto the toilet, his forehead resting on his hands around the bowl - Ryuzaki sitting to the side. His mind is racing, and he's sure people are going to come looking soon - it has been 45 minutes after all. If anything, he's surprised people haven't found them sooner.

"I ruined everything again," Light whispers suddenly, his voice hoarse and dry. "I always do. I always fucking do."

Ryuzaki's voice is quiet. "No."

Light lifts his head an inch, enough to narrow his eyes toward the boy beside him. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not," Ryuzaki says, turning just slightly. "Ruining things implies there was something there to ruin to begin with."

Light winces at that - because of the words, because of the pain in his arm, because of how easily Ryuzaki saw through all the facades Light had so carefully constructed for years. His walls were cracking, and Ryuzaki was walking through them without ever asking for permission.

"I ruined a lot. I ruined our first interactions...I...the 2 times we've properly interacted was because of this fucking addiction," Light snaps, but there is no heat in it. Just raw nerves.

"That's an odd way of seeing it, Light-kun. Where would you be if I hadn't helped you?"

The words settle like a stone, no - a boulder in Light’s chest. He stares at the speckled tile floor, suddenly more aware of his own weight, his own skin. He wants to argue - say something cold, something venomous, something that would push Ryuzaki away for good. But all that comes out is a small, trembling breath, and a slow shake of his head.

Light shuts his eyes. The pain was settling into something dull and distant now. It still hurts - god, it hurts - but it's manageable. Self-inflicted pain always is, in a way.

It's the emotional pain that always draws the line for him.

He shifts, slowly, with a wince, and leans his head back against the stall, close enough that his shoulder brushes Ryuzaki’s. Neither of them move away.

"I want to hate you for this," Light whispers.

"You're welcome to."

Light lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but it's too bitter - too broken.

"I don't, though," he admits after a moment. "I don’t hate you."

Ryuzaki nods once, as if he’d expected that.

Outside the bathroom, the day continues like it always does - class bells, echoing voices, footsteps of teachers pacing down the hall. Time moves forward. The world didn’t pause just because Light Yagami was bleeding in a bathroom stall with the social outcast.

After another long pause, Ryuzaki speaks again. "I think we need to do something different next time."

Light turned his head slowly. "What do you mean?"

Ryuzaki meets his eyes. Unflinching. "Like not waiting until you're nearly bleeding out before asking for help." He says, like a disapproving father or teacher, somebody with authority - telling him off after doing something stupid. But of course, in the classic Ryuzaki fashion.

Light blinks. The tears are here again - unwelcome, stupid, embarrassing. He hates how easily this boy chips away at him.

"I'm sorry," he says, almost inaudible. Despite being the most responsible person in the school by a landslide - apologies always came hard to him.

"That's okay," Ryuzaki murmurs, turning his head to rest on the stall wall beside him. "I suppose I'll have to keep checking in, then."

Light doesn't respond. Can't. His throat is tight again, chest fluttering like he might cry or scream or just fall apart all over again. But he doesn't.

He simply sits there. Next to the boy who refused to leave him alone. The boy who saw past his facade and didn't run. The boy who, maybe, had his own reasons for staying - reasons Light couldn't yet name.

And for the first time in weeks, Light doesn't feel like he has to pretend. Not entirely.

He's still bleeding, still broken, still buried beneath layers of pain and pride and self-hate. But he isn't alone in it anymore.

And that scares him more than anything else.