Death Note Fan Fiction ❯ Going to Marrakesh ❯ Porcelain ( Chapter 8 )

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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Porcelain
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Of all of them, Misa's the most aware, and though she scowls and pouts and hisses accusations, clings and snarls and lashes out, she never scolds Light for what he's doing and what he's done, and in some odd, abstract way, he suspects he should feel guilty about it. But he doesn't - he's never really felt anything before, and he doesn't now, and he sometimes wonders why they're doing this, trying to save them all, people who are too stupid to realize the danger they're in - and the only reassurance that anything matters at all is in the clatter of china and the splash of lukewarm tea, whispers of life in a world gone hazy and soft with dreams and anticipation and dread and dullness.

"I have measured out my life in coffee spoons," he quotes softly on a dull rainy afternoon, peering over a pile of reports and past the puzzled glances of Aizawa and his father to L's afternoon snack, doughnuts oozing cream and jelly like freshly-spilled viscera onto crisp white paper doilies.

Idly, he thinks that perhaps he's becoming a callous bastard, but that could just be L's influence, unfolding his perfect package to reveal someone who isn't much like the model student and devoted son he's been pretending to be, but there are far better ideals than those held up by society - sheep, something soft and dark whispers from deep inside, and he throttles the thought before it can be carried out - and the farther he gets from that society, the less he finds himself caring. They're not like me and I'm not like them.

"In the chambers of the sea," L murmurs agreeably, gaze flickering to the quiet storm rumbling past the windows and back again.

"...but I really can't picture Misa in seaweed," he mumbles, still in English and spoken swiftly enough that only L will understand. "Or talking of Michelangelo."

L puts his thumb to his lips and half-smiles in a fashion that manages to be simultaneously rather attractive and incredibly creepy. "I can."

Light throws a doughnut at his head, and L catches it with deft fingers and an arched brow. "Stop perving on my girlfriend, Ryuuzaki."

"Merely an observation, Light-kun. Misa-Misa is very fond of her religious imagery, it should not be a surprise that she might be familiar with some of his more famous works."

Later that night, he spends an hour or so watching her, black on red and bright, bright hair, flipping through a glossy magazine and toying with an ornate cross draped around her neck - but which one is it, Misa-Misa-Kira-Misa, and even now it makes his fingers tremble, because there are lies heaped on lies on lies and lies and he thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that this is his fault, but it can't be his fault, because if the world weren't so awful then he wouldn't have... and it's gone again, spider silk and a plastic kiss, echoing in the dark.

He wakes up one morning to utter stillness and stares down at his bedmate, soft and curled and rumpled, the cold sunlight streaking through the blinds creating a bright slash against the paleness of his throat, and for the first time in forever he's struck by the thought that L - Ryuuzaki - looks entirely human.

"Oh," he says softly, just staring, a little dazed and a little confused, and then, "damn."

And then he settles himself down gingerly beside him, slides an arm around his waist so thin he's too thin did I make this happen is it me or is it him or is it us? and just lies there for an hour, because L is going to die, probably in the course of this case, maybe because of him - we did this we're doing this it's us even if he's caught we're running too hard and the only way to stop is - and for the first time it's not an unfortunate consequence of living, it's not a vague whispery dread or a bright-hard certainty, it's a tragedy, and when it happens, he knows he won't have the time or ability to grieve.

"I won't cry for you," L whispers against his ear sometime later in the middle of a frozen afternoon, when they're alone except for an outpouring of sunshine lining the world in gold, and in its brightness, he seems faded, the shadows under his eyes deep as death in the light. "There's nothing to cry about, so don't be sad."

"Just because it's inevitable doesn't mean I can just... divorce my feelings from it all," he whispers, feeling childish and small and vaguely ashamed that he doesn't actually seem to know how to cry, when only the most sincere performance will make it real. "How can you...?"

Fingers on his hair, on his cheek, and brushing over his lips, and even though it's an admittance of weakness, he presses into the touch. "So idealistic," L chides, soft enough that the words bite, "if it makes you feel any better, it will be because of me."

His stomach turns a knot, but he swallows and doesn't plaster on the fake smile and laugh because they're alone and he's being serious and... "I'm glad," he whispers back, soft and choked and miserable, because he wants it this way. "And... me?"

"I would expect nothing less, Kira," L tells him, and he has to punch him then, bite and hit and do something, anything, because even though he hates it, hates it more than anything else he's ever hated before, he hates the part of him that whispers yes and mine and kill you fucking bastard and laugh and laugh and laugh, but it's either his own disgust with himself or his own disgust with L that muddles his head enough that he loses a fight with the coffee table and winds up nursing a sprained wrist with an entirely unhelpful detective brooding at him from the other end of the chain.

"We should die in each other's arms," he says once, whimsical, "you and me and Misa, one big pile, and leave everyone else to clean up the mess."

"How irresponsible and melodramatic," L retorts coolly.

"You like it too," he accuses, and it wins him a half-smile, nearly hidden behind a treacle tart.

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