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lawlightweek2022 · 1 year

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The Rosarium of Our Shared Mouth

Pairing: L/Light

Rating: T

TW: vomit, threat of death/dire situations, hanahaki, suggestive dialogue

Summary: Who could have thought, Light thought to himself, and he could only think this as his throat was overgrown with brambles and petals, that a god would be brought down by some flowers?

A/N: People have liked my Lawlight hanahaki post so much that I thought I might try to write at least one chapter. The first chapter is a mite more dramatic than I meant it to be. This might be four chapters when completed. It will hopefully be short but who knows. Tagging @lawlightweek2022 because I did try to write and finish it before Sunday so I think it counts as a straggler.

Chapter 1

If ever a god favored Light Yagami, it would have to be Nike herself. Life has been a string of victories for him—a good reputation, a respected father with connections, perfect test scores, pleasing physique, charm and athletics and, most recently, the ability to control fate with but his own two hands.

Now, he need not get ahead of himself. Some limitations applied. No matter. These, like rules and coda and people are easily bent and warped to suit his needs. Not even the Shinigami Ryuk had seen the full potential of the Death Note before Light came into the picture.

He is damning with faint praise. In all honesty, Light doubts that Ryuk could see anything beyond the apples he shoves into his face daily. Shinigami and people are frighteningly similar in their simplicity. Not Light. Not he.

He could hardly believe it himself, how he had wound up in that helicopter reunited with his instrument of destiny. So perfectly had he played all around him, a part of him suspected and perhaps feared even this thought could be a plant by his past self. Either way, it does him no good to question it. So he should savor the sweetness of the victory.

But there is something that sticks in his craw, catches him on his shirt sleeve, and allows gravity to claim him by way of a cobblestone that juts too far from the ground. Light begins to notice it when he has come down from the high of accomplishing his gambit. It hangs back in the doorway with him, watching L take his tea grimly as he presses the lip of his cup to his flat white mouth. He has forgotten his three sugar cubes again. L sees him and then adds them.

It is with him when he wakes up to a cold and silent bed. Lullabies of rhythmic breathing and click-clacking keys are replaced by the creak of the mattress as he rolls onto his back and then flops onto his belly only to turn on his side.

It is discomfort and trepidation, a flicker of lightning in the sky overhead as he stands in an open field. It hits him not like a tonne of bricks but the roof of headquarters collapsing upon his head. As the sun leaks scarlet and blood orange over the skyscrapers of Tokyo, it dawns on Light that there is no sweetness to savor. All gustatory senses drown in black coffee and citrus peel. Light will not grind his teeth. After all, he, that man, is always listening. And watching. And eating and smelling.

This does not feel like a win. He cannot for the life of him understand why. Still, he continues. Though there is no sweetness to be had here, he must see this to its end.

He is lying to himself. A part of him understands. That part also remembers how he as a child had eaten Sayu's pudding, an act of revenge sparked by their father's clear favoritism. Every bite had compelled his mouth to warp into a grimace around the spoon but he ate it nonetheless.

On the other hand, that afternoon there is sweetness in L's tea. Pale slender fingers work open packet after packet all to dump a sprinkling of white crystals into water that has long grown tepid. The thumb and forefinger grasp the handle of L's golden dessert fork as he swirls the end of it in what looks more like milk than water at this point.

L looks up. "Yes? Light?"

Light flashes him a smile that feels too lopsided for his liking. He stuffs down his disquiet and makes no move to pause. The curtains have come up and L has turned his opera glasses upon him. "Just thinking of that time I woke up sticky."

Immediately, a grin that could have only been formed through the influence of Satan himself widens L's frog mouth. Light blinks and it is gone. "Pardon?" L says politely, but the aftereffects of the smile are very much still present in the crinkling corners of his eyes. "Light? What did you say?"

"I meant," Light repeats, slowly and carefully and feeling flames lick his cheeks, "that my face woke up—I woke up with my face sticky."

"Ah," L says, but the smile threatens to return, flickering like a birthday candle that refuses to go out. "Is Light accusing me of someth—"

"I meant," Light intercepts the spoken thought, "that you had your tea and cake on me while I was sleeping. Likely because you were to lazy to get the bed tray or you wanted to keep working and couldn't be bothered."

Forget dinner plates. L's eyes are the size of satellite dishes. "Light," he gasps, "I would never."

"You would."

"I am not known for doing this."

"I have known you to do this."

"Not true." L hums and sticks a sugary thumb into his mouth. "I would not have left any evidence behind."

Light feels several collisions somewhere in the area of his breastbone; sensations he has felt before and just as he did then he will not notice them now. He would parry with some rejoinder but something about L's claim of leaving no evidence and the tongue lapping at L's thumb as he shows Light his digit free and clean of powder while saying, "See?" glues Light's tongue to the roof of his mouth. Light shakes his head and gathers his words carefully this time.

"It is true. You have exhibited similar habits in front of the task force. I've seen you use Matsuda's back as a temporary desk when you were writing on a memo and didn't feel like walking three feet to an actual flat surface." On L's metaphorical arm, to which is attached the metaphorical hand that kept prodding the bars of his cage, Light bites down and does not let go. Make him sound like a pervert, will he? "It was three feet away."

"I'm a busy man."

He is also an infuriating man. "You have also attempted to use Aizawa's head as a cupholder."

"I was carrying donuts," L replies stubbornly. "Did he want me to spill coffee everywhere? Did you want me to spill coffee everywhere?" Light can just hear him adding "Kira?" in his head. And that is where that jab will remain, Light longs to say.

Instead, he carries on their argument. "You were carrying six donuts in your arms and they were all for you. You could have put four of them down."

"Don't be silly," L answers. He is smiling now. Despite himself, so is Light. "Sugar powers the deductive reasoning that we need to move the investigation forward. So I needed to eat that many donuts, you see. It was for the team. I took one for the team."

"It was half a dozen."

"I ate half a dozen donuts for the team."

It is the sincerity of his tone and the somber nod from L that coaxes a giggle out of Light. The suddenness and impulsivity of the action makes Light pause. He is not himself today. This is not him. The masks are cracking, the cowls are tearing, and Light is realizing that the end truly is approaching. In a few weeks, it will have been a year since picking up the notebook. It has been a year more exciting than any moment in his dull eighteen years of existence. Gods, magic books, and secret identities—everything has been like something out of a comic book or the strangest novel ever penned, and it is all ending.

He has been staring at his hands too long. When Light looks up again, his stomach lurches. Ryuk must be about because he feels a ghost's hand in his chest with claws wrapped tight around that shuddering muscle, a little quirk of the Shinigami's that would emerge whenever Light was being too insolent, usually as he whispered, "Someday," in Light's ear.

L is watching him like Light's mother had been looking at him when he had declared at eight years old during dinner that they would be a family "forever," choosing not to reveal to him at the time that a gunshot wound a week ago, the reason why Daddy has been home "sleeping so much," had almost made a liar out of him. Amusement mingles with sadness on L's face. It is in the darkness of his eyes and the minute crease under his nose he might call a smile. Light's insides perform a belly flop.

"What is it?" he asks but it comes out as a whisper.

L shrugs and Light is certain he will never see the look again. "Nothing," L deadpans. "Just thinking about it."

Light feels himself lean in. He cannot help himself. His body does it on its own. "About what?"

L does not answer right away. His eyes are trained on the clouds that Light feels he might be able to touch if he just opens a window and reaches out. "The loneliness, I think."

There is a carousel inside Light's abdomen and all his entrails are on their fifth time around. He gets up. His mouth moves according only to its own will. "Don't worry about it, Ryūzaki," he says. Everything is so on automatic he almost flashes his brightest smile. Not now. This is not the time. L can suspect nothing. Only at the very end can he relieve his curiosity. It will be Light's final kindness to him; a kindness that L does not deserve. "We will get to the bottom of this case. I promise you."

He feels Rem's eyes on him.

He excuses himself to the bathroom. Briskly, he walks. L cannot be left alone with the Shinigami for long but he feels that the good standing and reputation he has wrenched from L's grasp will be imperiled if he deposits his lunch directly onto a computer.

The bathroom door closes behind him. Over the sink, he starts to retch. In such discomfort is he that it does not strike him just how embarrassing this is. He has not felt this sick since he was a small child. But there are worse orifices to relieve oneself through, so he will put up with it.

Out it comes, but it is so small, and so dainty, that Light would have never believed it to be the source of his nausea had its expulsion not been followed by immediate relief. Light squints at it and carefully reaches into the sink. Using just the tips of his fingers, he fetches the object and stares.

It is the single petal of a blue rose.

#homoeroticide #fanfiction #lawlightweek2022 #rating: t #tw vomit

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lawlightweek2022 · 1 year

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@lawlightweek2022

Day 7: Moon | Secrets eclipsed or exposed Light buys an Instant Pot and L has some concerns about the matter. Or: eighteen years after the Kira investigation, L and Light are still very alive and very happy with one another, apart from Light's inability to use kitchen appliances. Content notes: Suggestive content. Teen and up audiences. Language note: There was no way to translate this both coherently and humorously -- 'itadakemasu' is a phrase said before eating. 2.5k words. Read here or on AO3

Light has purchased an Instant Pot.

L discovers this when he comes home to find Light at the kitchen table, staring at the box with the sort of fixation he usually reserves for L in the nude or particularly challenging Ikea furniture manuals. He does not look up when L enters.

“What’s that?” L asks, hitching his grocery totes over his hip so he can kick the door shut. Light hates this — apparently it damages the sill — but if he isn’t going to help L carry anything he will have to suck it. He pulls off his shoes, shoves them vaguely to the edge of the genkan, then steps inside.

“Mm,” says Light. Then, “It’s a 9-in-1 Smart Multi-Use Pressure and Slow Cooker. It can also make cakes.”

“Amazing,” L tells him. “Can we afford an 9-in-1 Smart Multi-Use Pressure and Slow Cooker?”

He wouldn’t say that Watari’s generosity had come with strings, exactly, but it certainly hadn’t extended far enough to pay for his forty-three-year-old former charge to laze about all day now that he’s stepped down as the world’s three greatest detectives. These days, he has a job in an office. He does audits. He is paid acceptably, has flex time, and is permitted to keep a live fern at his desk. It isn’t particularly exciting, but it takes up exactly eight hours of his day and nothing more. Not once has he been called upon to kill someone.

“It was thirty-percent off.”

“I see.” The bags are digging into his arms. His back is absolutely killing him. He waddles into the kitchen, then drops them into the table beside Light. Light startles, and looks up at him. “I bought everything we need for curry. And groceries for the rest of the week. And toilet paper, and dish soap. I got the moisturizing kind so your hands won’t crack. It’s cream-and-rose. But the curry is the most important part, because the vending machine was broken at work and I’m starving.”

“Oh,” Light says. “We can cook it in the instant pot.”

“Yes. We can cook it in the instant pot.” He ruffles Light’s hair, then leans down to kiss him on the crown of his head. “If you don’t help me put these away,” he says, affectionately, “I will strangle you to death and no-one will ever find the body.”

---

He burnt the book, incidentally. After they caught Kira. Kira being Light. Caught meaning L had sacrificed a person’s life to test the Death Note and thereby discovered that all the evidence suggesting Light was anything but a mass murderer was based on fabricated rules.

By all rights, he should have sent him off for execution, but he just couldn’t do it, not after all that. And anyway once he’d destroyed the book Kira’s power was gone, zapped out of existence, so there would hardly have been any point. His beloved boy had been resurrected brand-new and harmless. Light is aware of what he’s done, but only because L told him; he doesn’t remember anything at all. The task force hasn’t wanted him to die, either, so letting him and Misa go was an easy sell.

So that was that. Everything got sorted out in the end. These days, L doesn’t think about it all that much. Sometimes at night. Sometimes when the sun strikes Light’s eyes just right and he is reminded of his capacity for cruelty and coldness that had once lived inside him. Of the rot on their hands, and the secrets they’d buried. But mostly he accepts the second chance he gave them both.

---

L stands at the sink, chopping up carrots and potatoes while Light hovers beside him, being of absolutely no help whatsoever. He’s poking at the Instant Pot, trying out all the setting and eliciting nothing but a series of erratic but pleasantly melodic beeps that fill up their tiny kitchen quite nicely.

The sun sets early in November and it’s already dark outside; the window is set right in front of their sink, and through it he can see an orange moon hanging low in the alley, cut through with the tangled cables that run from rooftop to rooftop. If he reaches out his hand, he can feel the chill through the glass, but in here it’s warm and gently lit.

Between them, a pan of hot oil and onions sizzles on the stovetop. Light is standing much too close to it, and L is half-watching to make sure he won’t get splattered with oil.

“I think you should read the manual,” L tells him.

“I don’t need a manual to use a kitchen appliance,” Light snaps.

This does not appear to be the case, but L decides to focus on lopping off the carrot tops rather than arguing. This knife is the last remnant of a set Sayu got them as moving-in present ten years ago; it is aquamarine and cuts about as well as a stick of salami, but L is very fond of it. She's got two children, now; he and Light keep a box of Lego in the closet for them.

Light pulls at a little knob at the top of the Instant Pot. It comes off in his hand. “It’s not broken,” he says, before L can say anything about that.

“I didn’t say it was. I just think you should read the manual. They explode, you know. If you depressurize them incorrectly.”

“Pressure cookers do. This isn’t a pressure cooker. It’s an Instant Pot. It has safety features.” Light sticks the knob back in place. It wobbles, then falls off into his palm. He slams it down and it stays.

L tries very hard not to laugh. He sweeps the carrots and potatoes into the pan, tilting the pan towards himself so it won’t spit on Light, then pats his hands on Light’s shirt to get rid of the dampness from the vegetables. Light swats his hands away, but there's no real irritation in the action; he does it lazily, and his fingers brush against the backs of L's hands for long enough that L suspects he'd mostly wanted to touch him.

He's gotten gentler as the years marched on. Sharp, still, and quick with his tongue, but he'd grown out of that vindictiveness he'd used to carry around with him. He doesn't stand out in a crowd anymore, and L thinks that helps. People want to much from young people, and Light had courted that even more actively than most. He's thirty-six, softening at the edges, the hint of crows-feet visible when he smiles, which he does much more than he'd used to. He hasn't quite hit middle age yet, but L thinks it'll suit him when he does.

L has himself become abruptly and dramatically visually older. It had happened two years ago, like walking straight off a cliff. His cheeks had gone gaunt instead of sharp, and white had started shooting through his hair at a frankly alarming rate. People had confused him for a university student all throughout his thirties, but all of a sudden young people were springing up to offer him seats on busses. At first, he’d found this more disturbing than he’d expected it to — he’d always thought he’d take to aging gracefully — but he doesn’t mind anymore. There’s both fear and comfort in having a body that will become what it what will become and whose progress cannot be disguised.

He straightens out the Light’s collar, then taps him on the nose. “Light,” he says. “Love. An Instant Pot is a pressure cooker. It’s the brand name for a type of pressure cooker.”

“It’s not. It’s a pressure cooker and a slow cooker and a steamer. And it makes yogurt and cake and porridge. It’s a combination unit. You didn’t have to sauté any of those because we could have done it in this thing. And don’t do that. It’s infuriating. Now I have potato sludge all over my shirt.”

L widens his eyes. “It seems you’ll have to take it off.”

When Light turns towards him, his expression is incredulous. “Are you serious.”

“No.” He really hadn’t been. It’s six o’clock. He’s just gotten off work. He’s about ready to eat the furniture. “Absolutely not. I’m starving. He points beside Light. “Could you pass me a spatula?”

Light does.

---

It’s a disaster. It’s an absolute, unqualified disaster.

L and Light stare into the pot, looking at the sludgy mess. It’s mostly water, lightly diluted by curry roux, with some vegetables swimming at the bottom. The onions, he notes, are nicely caramelized.

“Perhaps we should order a pizza,” L suggests. “Why,” Light says, with a level of stubbornness and self-delusion that L had not realized he was capable of. After eighteen years, Light still has the capacity to surprise him. That’s true love.

“It looks fine.” At best, it looks like dishwater.

“It really does not.”

“It does. It’s fine. Get a ladle.”

“I do not want to do that.”

Light spins on him. “Don’t you love me.”

“What?” L stares at him. Light stares back, unflinching. There is something faintly wild in his eyes. L gestures towards the pot, trying to draw Light’s attention towards the very clear evidence that every single thing about it is horrible. “What does that have to do with anything? This looks terrible. It looks like we put vegetables outside to get rained on. If we put this over rice, we won’t be able to eat the rice.”

“Sit down,” Light says. He jerks his head towards the table, which he’d set with bowls, spoons, and some very nice indigo hand-cloths they’d bought from a trip to Montreal a few years back. The cloths don’t have anything whatsoever do with Montreal, but they’d bought them in a little shop filled with crystals and patchouli which they’d ducked into to escape from a sudden downpour. They’d got some tor Misa, too, and she’d sewn them into a shockingly nice set of pillowcases. The woman who’d sold them has offered them a ten percent discount if they posted a picture of the shop on Instagram, which Light had done before deleting the post the second they walked out the door. He’s very fond of them.

The authoritative tone Light has decided to take would have been quite attractive, actually, if he hadn’t been about to make L eat a puddle of turmeric, raw potatoes and absolutely perfect onions. Maybe L should have made him take off his shirt after all. Perhaps then he could have pretended this was some sort of fetish.

L sits down at the table, pulling one leg up under the other.

Determinedly, Light takes both bowls and fills them with rice. He ladles the curry over them. His back is turned towards L, so L can’t quite see what he’s doing, but he’s taking quite a while, and L suspects he’s having trouble getting enough curry to fill the bowl, given that it’s essentially just a very upsetting tisane. Then he goes to the fridge, takes out the Tupperware container of beni shoga, and drops a little into each bowl. L had made it last weekend. It was incredible beni shoga, incidentally. Light had given him a hard time about the wildly uneven sizes but L feels that this provides a sense of homespun charm. And anyway Light has been eating them straight from the container every single day since, so L is pretty sure he likes them.

Light returns, looking murderous, and puts a bowl in front of L. He sits down across the table.

L stares at it. It’s very wet, brownish rice with a healthy serving of equally wet and brownish vegetables, topped with slivers of bright red ginger.

“Itadakemasu,” Light says. It sounds like a threat. L mumbles it back, then picks up his spoon to prod cautiously at the mess. A carrot slides easily across the rice. Light takes a bite. L looks up to observe his expression. It is very carefully neutral. Light takes another bite. And then another. And then another.

“It’s good,” Light tells him. “It’s great. I’m glad I bought an Instant Pot.”

“Okay,” says L. Gingerly, he takes a bite, then freezes, and very carefully swallows. He looks up at Light. “This is horrific.”

“It’s not. It’s good.” Light takes another bite. L stares at him, watching his throat bob. He waits. Finally, Light sets his spoon down. “Fine,” he says. “We should order a pizza.”

“Oh, thank God,” says L, then springs to his feet. He heads for the phone, then takes a step back. “But it really is a nice Instant Pot,” he adds. “We’ll give it another try tomorrow. You got a very good deal. I’m very proud of you.”

Light looks pleased.

---

So Light was Kira. So he killed a few hundred people. Marriages are about overcoming obstacles together. They are about compromise, and about respecting differences. They have been together for eighteen years, now — nineteen, come December — and they have both decided to move on. Put it behind themselves. Every day is a new day, and so on.

He should probably feel guilty about some of this. About letting Kira go, just because he’d become fond of him. For failing to enact the justice he’d been raised for. For letting the idea of Kira fizzle itself out instead of offering the world the catharsis it deserved. Maybe even for telling Light about what he’d done, instead of keeping that to himself and allowing his husband to live in blissful ignorance.

But he doesn’t. Perhaps that makes him a bad person, but he doesn’t care, because the dishes are soaking in the sink and Light is pulling him into his lap, which has grown pleasantly soft over the years. The moonlight filters through their curtains and the television is playing re-runs of a show that neither of them care about. Light is laughing low and soft as he kisses L’s fingers and then his throat and then his lips. He’d comfortable and unhurried as he weaves his fingers into L’s hair. They’ve got the remnants of ginger ice-cream melting on bowls in front of them and hours which belong to no one except themselves.

And oh, he’s happy. The years stretch forwards and back and they are here to inhabit them; alive and beloved and content.

#quicktimeeventfull #fanfiction #day 7: moon #rating: t #lawlightweek2022

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