Work Text:
Sleep is a desperate endeavour that Light is sent on an endless chase for — because having L, extraordinary detective and probably one of the smartest people on the planet as your roommate, is a punishment fit for death row inmates. He’s a grade-A douchebag roommate, and Light severely pities Watari for having to work for this man.
Light buries his head further into his pillow, trying to escape the sterile, white light (hah) of L’s laptop, dousing every surface in its glare from its purchase up on the desk. Light has no clue how L can stand being perched in front of it, processing so many sensory inputs all at once while running on four hours of sleep, maybe, because yesterday he had kept Light up to the point where he only got five.
Even worse, it's the only light source besides the weak glow of the moon, so it can't be dimmed through naturally existing in the sphere of other light sources.
And that clicking — that incessant smash of keys seriously makes Light consider if being deaf would be better. Even worse, L’s a fast typer; so each time he pauses to ponder and Light thinks he could fall asleep, it starts up all over again in a battering ram of clicks.
He’s exhausted.
“Ryuzaki,” Light calls out across the room. No response. “Ryuzaki, L.”
This time the typing does cease, and only for a moment, so L can whisper. “No real names, Light. You know this.”
Light scrunches his eyes shut and buries it in the pillow — hard enough to see stars dance across his vision. “That’s because you weren’t listening to me — I am trying to sleep and your incessant typing is keeping me from actually doing so.”
“Ah,” L says with no particular inflection. Light shifts his head just enough to peek at L still staring at the blinding screen; letters and numbers and lines all melting into one, unreadable mess. “My apologies, Light, I did not mean to keep you up—“
“You kept me up yesterday as well, and the day before that.”
L fully ignores him. “—however, I do have work to finish — documentation for procedures needed for the Kira case, in fact. And as you know, I don't need as much sleep as the average person, so I am perfectly content working like this.”
“You may be content like this, but I am not,” Light groans, blinking away the spots of colours bursting across his eyes. “I need my sleep — and so do you, because you do in fact follow the average person's biological need for sleep. You’re being childish.”
“I suppose you are right on that front — though I do need less sleep than the average person, I had Watari do a series of —“ L is cut off when Light picks up a pillow, winds it back and chucks it at his head.
The sound of a crash and something shattering is immensely satisfying — the sterile light cutting out to only allow the moon to illuminate the room in soft wisps of light. It does wonders for Light’s eyesight and he can physically feel his blood pressure lowering.
“Maybe you don't need sleep, but I do and that stupid typing that you’re doing is keeping me from actually getting the minimum I need to function,” Light hisses, rolling onto his side and tugging the blanket up to his chin. Somewhere in the back, L’s shuffling can be heard. “ Go. To. Sleep. L.”
A pause is hung in the air. A long, drawn out pause.
Light is viciously yanked from his position through the handcuff snapped around his wrist — Hell fuck he forgot about that — and sent tumbling off the side of the bed onto his back — a burst of pain there — only to have his shirt fisted roughly upwards.
A monstrous little voice of yes swirls around his ribcage, so Light grins a little callous smile that has L tightening his grip. “Angry, L?”
“Yes,” L says simply, little inflection in voice besides a tremor. Moonlight spills across his face in rivets, sharp in the way it highlights his irises. “You broke the screen of my laptop, Light — the one that I have been using for the last three years, one that Watari gifted me.”
“Tragic,” Light deadpans, then pauses when L’s mouth twists downwards in something that pulls at him. Empathy, uncommon for him; it's sickening, a force that makes him bite out. “Okay — I’m sorry for breaking it. I just need sleep L,” His eyes blink rapidly, a natural response to sleep deprivation. “I can't go on having four hours of sleep each night, and I suspect you can’t either; you’re only human as well, as much as you don't think about it.”
And that makes L take a second to think, something that Light has only ever seen him do when speaking to him and it is so — so euphoric, it almost makes him feel high on the fact that someone understands what he means when talks. L is on par with Light and Light is on par with L.
“In that light, I suppose you are correct,” L loosens his hold on Light’s shirt, sitting back on his heels so Light can push himself up into a sitting position. “I apologise then, I did not mean to cause you to lose sleep. It’s just that—“ L cuts himself off, lifting a hand to scratch at an invisible itch on his cheek; a nervous tick he has. “I just…feel incapable of falling asleep, it seems. Have I told you I’m diagnosed with Insomnia?”
“No,” Light says, shifting a little to rub at a small ache in his back. “I had assumed so due to your, well , peculiar sleeping habits.”
L smiles, a single canine poking out in a way that makes Light feel hot even being looked at. His eyes stay calculative — wide and expansive, because his brain never stops running. “Figures, nothing gets past Light Yagami. My insomnia is the type where I find it extremely difficult to fall asleep, and when I do my body can't stay asleep for long periods of time; so I am awakened by my own brain becoming active again. I find it easier to simply stay awake then attempt to sleep.”
“That…” Light takes a moment to think of an eloquent way to word his thoughts; then immediately discards that because this is L and L is far from eloquent. “Fucking sucks.”
“It does, fucking suck.” L agrees, humour lacing his tone and well doesn't that just do things to Light’s nerves. “I got lucky also having Short Sleeper Syndrome — I can function on less than 6 hours of sleep and be fine, so a match made in heaven I suppose.”
“While that may be the case, I’d rather have you sleep when I sleep so I don’t have to deal with you being restless” Light rubs a thumb on the inside of his wrist; a habit that surfaces when he doesn’t wear his father’s watch. “Tell me, L, do you have any methods of falling asleep?”
L presses his thumb below the sharp line of his mouth; another quirk he has, just one he does when he’s thinking. “I have tried many and none of them have particularly gotten past the insomnia, though I am partial to scented candles, they do help me relax.”
Light scrunches his face up at that information — apparently in such a way that makes L let out a single laugh, an act that makes the top of his ears burn. He’s not too bothered on finding out why. “I am not, they make my nose itch and make me feel like I’m suffocating. Any other ones?”
“No,” L says simply. “I have only found that being relaxed helps me sleep better, but that is so with most people, and I find it distinctly difficult to identify when I am relaxed, so I am open to any ideas that you may have.”
And — and Light truly takes a moment to comb through the litany of information he has gathered obsessively over the years; hours of clicking through websites, days spent combing through entire sections of libraries, weeks spent in the biology department of his university — the human body, a fascinating organism that produces, creates and reacts from chemicals and environments; fighting foreign substances and fighting itself when it needs to.
The intimate feeling of blood rushing through his wrists and organs sitting in his torso feels heavier than ever. “What about skin to skin contact?”
L stills, locked in motion, face only showing traces of emotion through his eyes slightly cracking wider; an instinctual reaction borne from needing to widen the visual field if the body reacts to something it perceives as dangerous. It makes something in Light’s stomach coil. “L—Light, that is only for infants who find it difficult to fall asleep.”
Light waves him off. “C’mon, L, you’re smarter than that. If the body is able to detect skin to skin contact is being made, it’ll release oxytocin and serotonin — the happy chemicals if you want, but they help make us relax. So, if I were to give you skin to skin contact, would that relax you?”
“That is entirely dependent on if my body recognises you as safe,” L muses, thumb pushing at his chin harder. “If it doesn't, then those chemicals would not be released and it would be more likely adrenaline would be, or nothing else entirely.”
Adrenaline pumping through L’s veins because of Light is certainly an image, one that doesn't appeal to him in any distinctive form — though it is an interesting idea. “True, that is a hypothesis entirely dependent on how your body responds. So, tell me, L,” Light leans slightly in, closer. “Does your body recognise me as safe?”
L is silent for a brief second. The second of a clock in the room ticks away. “Yes, I think it does.”
“In that light,” Light pushes himself upwards to contort into a crouch, elbows on his knees for balance. The ache in his back slowly ebbs away. “Would you be willing to have skin to skin contact with me to help you sleep? I won’t do anything else, I will not touch you anywhere you don’t want, and will only have contact with you in places where express permission is granted.”
“I find those terms acceptable,” L says, measured. Cocking his head, he gives the tiniest smile, one that Light can’t read in any capacity. “Despite my insistence that you are Kira, Light, I have found myself inexplicably trusting you. And because of that, I am willing to trust you to do what you think will relax me — I am actually quite curious to see how you perceive me, and how that will influence how you treat me.”
“Well, then,” Light looks at the frame of L, thinking. He ignores the violent rush of blood at the mention of Kira. “How far would I be allowed to touch you?”
“As far as you think is needed,” L answers. “If you venture somewhere I don't want, I am capable of stopping you — I dont think you’ve forgotten that kick I delivered to you.”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t,” Light agrees, quirking a small smile at the way L tilts his head at the admission. Kira doesn't like to admit weakness, but Light isn't above doing so — a fundamental difference in the way their philosophies function. Kira is a God above moral prosecution because he exists in a realm where he dictates what those morals are ; but Light is intimately aware of just how human he is, be it disconnected partially from the idea of empathy, but that has never stopped him from helping. His sense of justice is far too strong for that, but he supposes that's where he and Kira line up in philosophy. “I felt it for quite a few days after.”
Light is let on the exact way L’s face morphs from processing his words, eyes dilating and mouth opening to bark a surprised laugh out; thumb slipping from his chin to hover inches from his clavicle. “Colour me surprised — Light Yagami admitting something truthful?”
An eyebrow twitch, a spasm from stress, maybe; in Light’s case, a tick to show irritation. “We all lie L, I just try not to.” In one smooth movement — knees cracking — Light is up on his feet.
”Unfactual,” L says, grabbing the hand Light offers to tug himself onto the front of his feet, heels elevated. It’s the way he prefers to walk, even though Light finds it uncomfortable himself. “You have purposefully lied and omitted information from me for personal gain.”
”Such as? And omitting information is not lying — it is changing the context of a statement; the way you interpret it is dependent on how you perceive the information given.”
L raises an eyebrow, thumbing at his lip again. “Untrue, you have lied to me about the fact that you are not Kira. I find omitting information is a form of lying, as that can change the justification in a situation towards the favour of the person omitting the specific information. Say you tell someone that a woman had deceived her husband in a nasty revenge scheme to steal his money and run away — that puts her in the role of morally unjustified. However, if you add the context that the husband had hidden her cheques — the money — away so she would be financially dependent on him, and when she found them she secretly withdrew the cheques to escape, would she be in the wrong?”
”No,” Light answers. His brain pulses with the word Kira Kira Kira — “She would not; I see your point, but I do see some situations where omitting information would not be lying — as some information is not relevant to the entire conversation, but that would be a case by case basis.”
”That is a fair compromise,” L glances at the broken screen at the ground, then to the tangled sheets on the bed. Pristine, almost. “Are we to begin now?”
Veins rush blood quicker in response to Light’s adrenaline spiking. “Yes — onto the bed, in the middle of it.’
L moves as instructed; climbing over the sheets, sitting down in the middle of the bed with his back to the headboard, blanket somewhere at his feet. With a sense of finality, he cocks his head as he rubs the bed cover between his forefinger and thumb, considering. Seeing him in such a position where he’s not hunched over in some way feels strange, but not in a way that feels wrong; just unfamiliar.
Light follows, slowly moving across the blankets until he reaches the edges of L’s feet and — God , he spreads the palm of his hands against L’s legs to make room for himself; Femur bone rotating in such a way that Light is framed by his long legs — then grabbing the ankle to pull him down onto his back.
With Light looming over L, hands on his legs, L quietly says “Oh,” Another tremor in his voice. “I was thinking you would perhaps do this in another way.”
Light pauses, carefully lifting his hands from where they had been touching the denim of L’s trousers. “If you would prefer something else — then I will do so, the goal is not to make you uncomfortable here, L.”
”No,” L says, almost harsh in a way that Light has never heard. It’s enough to make him blink once, and then twice. “This is perfectly fine, it was just… unexpected I suppose. I am still curious to see what you will do, and how that fits into your view of me.”
“Okay,” Light places his palms back onto L’s knees. Keen eyes follow. “Just tell me if that changes,” And, clinical in nature, a disaster to process in Light’s mind, he says; “Take off your shirt.”
This time around, L doesn’t hesitate when he curls a finger around the bottom hem of his shirt, hiking it up, up, up until it gets discarded to somewhere neither of them can see.
And Light feels hot, hot, hot at the sight of L’s chest expanding steadily; stomach collapsing in on itself to bring in air, rib-cage expanding. Individual grooves of ribs press against the skin, bold until they disappear under the blanket of L’s pectoral muscles. As much as L comes off as strange with his behaviour, it is a startling realisation to see the inner workings of his body to keep him alive; just in the same manner as Light’s body does.
His own chest expands at the same time L’s collapses again, and Light cannot help but be reminded by the push and pull of water.
L tilts his head. “Is this acceptable?”
“Yes,” Light carefully considers his next words, hooking his pointer finger in the loops of L’s trousers. “Would you be…comfortable with this off?”
The sound of L unzipping his fly is like a bullet in Light’s ears; casing unloading into his throat to swallow when L starts shimmying his waist out of them.
Light hikes one of L’s legs upwards to help it out, then the other one, L grabbing the now stray trousers to chuck towards the end of the bed. L does not react at the request in any capacity — his eyes don't change, unnerving as ever; clever as always.
L’s boxers are the same shade of black that his hair is. Light truly, and utterly does not know what to do with that information; idly categorising the fit as loose.
His thighs are textured in tiny stretch marks, dips into bleak white, stretched over his surprisingly lean collection of leg muscles — Biceps Femoris the most prominent, tough to the touch where the others are not.
At that exact moment, L seems to come to the realisation of why Light had even endeavoured to help him. “Are you using this as your chance to study the human body?” He asks, incredulous, a rare thing. Light internally preens at the notion that he did that.
”Yes,” Light says, unabashed. A body is a body, an organism built out of muscle, bones, fat and organs and nerves — a fascinating thing to study, bolstered by the sheer uniqueness that varies across populations. “I am, but I am also doing it as a way to relax you — each action is never only selfless; the line on if an action is purely selfish or selfless is only drawn on which party it benefits. In this case, it benefits both of us.
L seems to consider that for a moment. “I suppose that can be true. Every action is always endued with selfish and selfless intentions; where it gets categorised as one or the other is a blurred line, one I’ve never been particularly bothered to figure out. I’ve never thought you a selfish person, but not particularly selfless either; so I’m not surprised. But, I do wonder how this benefits you.”
Light tilts his head, a slither of a grin appearing. “That depends on how you perceive my intentions, there are some things I wish to keep to myself. So, with that information omitted, how will you interpret my actions? I wonder.”
There’s a pause from L. “You are a very difficult man, Light Yagami.”
Light pinches the skin of L’s left knee, a yelp immediately ending that side of the conversation. “So are you. I still wonder how I haven’t had an aneurysm from the high blood pressure you give me — now shush.”
L obeys, surprisingly, mouth closed to a thin line. Eyes wide, he stares for a moment until they wander off, hair spiralling like spider webs under his head. Messy, in his eyes, curling around his sharp jawbone, covering sections of his ears. Ever so slightly, L’s head tilts towards the left in a comfortable position — SCM muscle emphasised from stretch to create the dip next to L’s Adam’s apple that induces the urge to plunge his finger through the skin.
So, Light starts there — hand curling around so his pointer and thumb trace the shape of the muscle, moving down, down, down until they narrow to the pit of L’s collarbone. His thumb presses into the small where the two ends connect, and he cannot help but think it was perfectly moulded in the size of a finger.
L swallows thickly, the muscle moving under Light’s fingerprint. “This is…an interesting way to relax me.”
”Repetitive motions help the muscles relax,” Light explains, hand grabbing the edges of L’s jaw to tilt and watch the movement of the Thyroid Cartilage as it does so; the Adam’s apple. “And that’s my overall goal; to get you to relax. You did say you wanted to see how I would do so.”
Pinprick pupils focus back on him for a moment, then wander again when Light's hand lets go of his jawbone. “Fair.”
Light’s thumb curls around the skin behind L’s ear, the skull’s temporal bone a nice difference to the squishy flesh of L’s neck. His brain is contained within it, suspended in Cerebrospinal fluid that cushions and protects it — and rightfully so. An organism so fascinatingly brilliant should be contained in something worth its own strength ten times over.
From there, his hand slides down the left shoulder — Light briefly pausing to feel how the Trapezius muscle curls over the shoulders — and over the Deltoid muscle, thumbing at the joint where the Humerus and Clavicle bones connect. His other hand curls around L’s elbow to lift it, thumb staying in place to feel how a hollow is created once the arm is lifted, bones shifting into the joint.
L’s elbow is sharp, skin wrinkled from constant stretch, thin hair poking at Light’s hand. The hand at the shoulder slides down L’s entire upper arm and Light is damn near startled from the way the Biceps Brachii muscle is relatively tough and thick. “Do you actually work out?”
L watches the way Light traces a finger on his inner arm muscles. “No, but I occasionally go to Dojos to spar, so I stay in shape through that. Watari insists on it. I do find myself enjoying it; the way the teachers are shocked at my skills despite my appearance is particularly funny.”
”Mmm,” Light pushes up the muscle to watch the way the little fat and skin bunches up together. Then, he pokes at the inner elbow, two moles there that resemble the shape of canine punctures of all things. “What fighting styles do you know?”
“Many, Light, some you have never probably even heard of. I do know most styles popular in Asia and some overseas, though I haven’t learned any new ones in years.” L doesn’t react when Light tests how far back his elbow can bend. The bones aren’t built to support rotating that far, but it’s slightly more than Light’s can bend, making him ponder on his past thoughts on if L is double jointed. “My primary fighting style would be Capoeira — it's a Brazilian martial art and very, very fun to fight with.”
Light follows where the Palmaris Longis and Flexor Carpi Radialis muscles would roughly sit on the inner forearm, ending at the inner wrist. Rows of thin dark hair are littered across the upper forearm, wiry in nature. “I should probably learn some martial arts if I’m going to be on the police force — preferably on my own, their training isn’t the best. Flex the muscles connected to your wrist quickly for me.”
L pauses, thinking. He flexes the muscles and Light can immediately feel the tendon of the Flexor Carpi Radialis. “I could teach you? I may not be the best teacher but I am by far the most skilled in this building. In the country, probably.”
Light takes a second, then snorts violently — L’s head snapping towards him in response. With both hands, he rotates L’s hand to study how the Ura and Radius bones cross to allow for it. “Confident?”
”Incredibly so. It would be a lie to say I am not one of the most skilled fighters in Japan currently.”
”Well, then, how about you teach me for about an hour a day?” Light presses his thumb into L’s palm, barely feeling the bones there. He switches to trailing a finger over his knuckles — incredibly knobby knuckles too.
L’s hands feel strange compared to his own; his fingers are long and thin with thick joints, coarse hairs from his forearm scattered across the upper skin of the hand, Extensor Digitorum Tendons strong to the point they feel like bones. The fingernails are bitten off at the end of the fingertips, some grown out while others resemble stumps. Tiny scars litter across skin, the thickest one sliced straight across the palm.
It takes Light an embarrassingly long time to realise L’s hands are moulded to play piano. “You play piano?”
L blinks. “Huh, I thought you’d need more information to figure that out — but yes, I grew up playing piano; violin as well, but I haven't done that in a few years. I try to play piano as often as I can. It is also relaxing for me, I think.”
Light bends the fingers as far as he can before he meets resistance. He does that with each and every single finger. “What’re some of your favourite songs to play? I played piano as a child as well, but haven't really done so since middle school.”
A brief moment of silence while L ponders; in that time, Light pushes the knuckle of the thumb inward to find that L is double jointed there — bone pushing outwards by the inner palm. He pinches that bone between his fingers, then pushes it in and out, in and out until he bores. “I always liked to play any classical music — Chopin, Beethoven and Mozart. Though I sometimes turn pop songs into piano for simple curiosity on how it would sound — sometimes pleasant, sometimes deafeningly bad.”
A hum as Light feels at L’s veins. They’re prominent as well, trailing from the hand down the forearm in thick rivets. The veins below the skin though — those are what are fascinating, striking blue and red point through the pale visage of L’s skin. He is so sickly pale, the blood vessels and veins and muscle so visible under his skin that Light can see the way blood pumps through them. Blood from the lungs, blood from the heart, pumped around the body at dizzying speeds to oxidise the cells; a captivating system.
He presses a finger to where L’s heartbeat is, and feels it battering against his fingerprints.
Light does not touch L’s other arm — only a brief sweep across the entire limb, because nothing under the skin will be different. The surface feels the same, skin smooth until hairs and wrinkled skin at the joints appear. His other hand is littered with scars as well, a surgical scar on the surface of his knuckles. A single mole sits on his right Deltoid muscle.
L’s hand twitches when Light spreads both palms across his chest, lungs stopping their respiration for a second, then kicked back into gear. His hands move up and down, up and down with the movement of L’s lungs expanding — fingers brushing where the first four ribs meld into the diaphragm.
The faint feeling of the heart’s cardiac cycle is almost nauseatingly distracting. The heart beats, the force of it pounding against Light's right palm — a system to keep blood pumping around the body to keep it alive, one of the most important organs in the human body. Once, he was allowed to dissect a cow heart on his Universities open day for the biology course; it was bloody and slimy, sticking his fingers into the artery’s; cold as well, nothing else feels like it. Apparently, the Chordae Tendineae — the heart strings — are supposed to be one of the hardest muscles to break in the heart.
Light tugged hard enough at them to snap, purely because he wanted to see if he could.
The lungs expand again, taking in oxygen, deoxygenating the cells to exhale as carbon dioxide. Alveoli expand, process, shrink back. Air, air, air, if Light pushed down just enough, the lungs would struggle to expand from the crushing weight. Dying from being crushed is such a terrifying notion; the ribs shatter, piercing the lungs to flood with blood, slowly being pushed down until either the lungs are crushed and the brain dies, or the heart is crushed and you die after a few seconds, Maybe the spine snaps first, and you’re paralysed until either two occur.
The moon has shifted just enough to spill shadows over L’s face, obscuring him to the point Light can almost trick himself into thinking it is simply a foreign body under him, and not L’s. But he doesn't, because he is endued with the intimate knowledge that this is L, and only L’s body.
His hands sweep down the length of L’s pectorals, fingers curving around the junction where the muscles end. And — and L’s back arches slightly, hips jutting upwards just a centimetre, and it makes Light's skin feel like it's on fire.
A reflexive reaction, a red drips down L’s neck to his clavicle — but he’s not embarrassed, because L is seemingly incapable of feeling so. Perhaps another feeling, one that Light isn't interested in finding, because he doesn't want to know what triggered it.
Light traces each bump of the ribs, moving down until he spreads both palms wide and L inhales and feels something off — something that makes him pause to study.
”Why is one side of your ribs more elevated than the other?” Light asks, pushing until he feels it and — yes, there, L’s left ribs are slightly more elevated than the right ribs.
L takes a few seconds to answer, head slowly lolling to look at Light. His chest moves in a slow stutter. “I had rotated my upper body in a stretch when I was fifteen and I just felt something move — my organs shifted and my ribs moved position. When I returned to my original position, they were different — wrong. I remember feeling sick at that and had to lie down until Watari found me and told me that I was alright, that no problems would arise from it.”
Light's own organs feel distinctly alive in his chest cavity, and maybe he should feel sick at the idea of them shifting in such a way that changes the natural positions of the ribs — but he doesn't, because it’s far more fascinating to him.
”Interesting,” He says, edging at the hollow of the final rib. Then, he pushes a single palm into the crater of L’s stomach and he can feel the organs move to accommodate it — intestines, stomach, oesophagus, liver and so much more sliding out the way for him to touch. Small hairs of L’s happy trail tickle his hand, dark hair swirling around the belly button that curls inward from scar tissue formation.
Light lifts his hand and L lets out a little wheeze. As a consolation, Light traces the sides of his waist, where the External Abdominal Oblique muscle resides and attaches to the final six ribs. The muscle there is strong as well, so repetitive motions of thumbs circling are made just to feel the firmness.
A spasm of muscle occurs right below it, too high an electrical impulse sent to it. Goosebumps break out across L’s waist, right where Light touches him, so he follows that and expands his field until he is practically holding L’s waist.
A thick swallow from L. Light feels a coil in his stomach tighten.
He moves down to have his thumbs trace the outline of L’s pelvis bone, fitting them into the concave shape. The edges of his thumbs brush against the inward curl of his abdominal muscles — the Rectus Abdominal — going down, down, down below the hem of the boxers. The muscle there jerks, moving against Lights skin and it is so — so —
Light skips past the boxers entirely, hands sweeping against L’s thighs — smooth skin with dark hair scattered. Millimetres of Lights fingers dip into the blank space of L’s stretch scars — tiny, thin things, borne from skin stretching too quick. His little sister has it, his mother has it; Light thinks he has a faded few from when he was thirteen.
L’s muscles under his legs flex to hold them in their current position; upright, stretched wide to make space for Light, the Femur rotated in a way that was built for it. He swipes a hand under the thigh to feel the hardened Gracilis muscle, layers of skin, muscle and fat pressing together to create texture.
Femur. The human femur. The strongest bone in the body, requiring four thousand newtons to simply break — to shatter, is even more. It takes less to break a wood plank, to destroy bricks, to snap every other bone in the body. It is something so deliciously powerful that it moved with the kick that bruised Light’s face for two weeks.
L does not move, does not speak, only a heavy exhale at the repetitive motions of Light touching him — simple, but something subconsciously recognised as safe. Light is safe, and with the way L’s muscles relax the further on he moves, it seems endorphins are being released at the notion of so.
L’s Hamstring muscle is slotted between Light's forefinger and thumb, pushing past all the fat and unused muscle to do so. Strong. His hand presses against the Patella bone, then to each side of the knee to feel how the Femur and Tibia slot together to create the knee. Lock and key. Gears shifting together to create the motion of walking.
Light fists his hand, sticks out the thumb, and rubs that pad up and down, up and down the length of the Tibia; from the ankle up to the knee. Up and down. Skin bunches up, moves along, then springs back into position. The texture of it is slightly different — thicker in a way, leg hair creating an almost coarse feel to it — something that inexplicably makes red spread down his neck and to his toes. A scar slashes horizontally through the back knee, and that creates so many implications that Light doesn't even know where to start.
And — and then, he grabs L’s ankle — where the Tibia and Fibula slot together — and lifts it to hook over his shoulder and just, keep it there; out of sight but still being able to feel the shape and muscles of the foot.
L’s finger twitches again and his head moves just the slightest, just enough to see what Light is doing and stays there. Light can feel his eyes on him, half lidded, and his stomach and heart and skin goes hot, hot, hot at that — heartbeat pulsing like a stereo in his ear. A small part of him wishes he could crawl inside L and hide, see the way his organs are shaped, where they sit and how Light could make them shift from a natural to unnatural position — because that is what this is, unnatural, in the grand scheme of social conventions.
Intimacy in society has to follow strict barriers to be seen as socially acceptable, select few actually allowed to participate in naked intimacy; romantic partners who engage in sex, and medical professionals who titter on the edge of it by seeing a patient naked, and having to touch them to perform a diagnostic. Non-romantic connections are only allowed hand holding and clothed cuddling, but from there any and all intimacy — especially naked — must be kept within the strict perimeters of romance. Even then, naked physical intimacy is only accepted in the context of sex; both preceding and proceeding it, and everything that lies outside that barrier is unconventional and deviant.
This — what L and Light are doing, is weird, completely and utterly deranged in the eyes of social expectations. One offering up their body to be studied and the other doing so because fascination had taken hold over acceptable behaviour. Friends don't do it, partners don't do it because it's not within the context of sex, and coworkers who accuse each other of crimes certainly don't — so, that leaves him and L somewhere outside and inside those barriers, free to do what they want because they only exist for themselves.
Light’s father would have a heart attack if he found out what he was doing with L — spilled out before him in a mosaic of being alive. Don’t care is what Light finds to be a particularly persuasive argument as he thumbs at the Flexor Digitorum Brevis tendons. They can do what they want, Light has never particularly cared for social expectations beyond what he needs for reputation and L has certainly never cared about conventions.
Light curves his hand around the back of L’s foot, sweeping against the Achilles muscle and Calcaneus bone. Then, he follows the arch of the foot with his palm until the calloused head, the tight string of the Plantar Fascia ligament present the whole way through. Cuts litter the bottom, sharp little shapes; with the way L refuses to wear shoes, Light is surprised there aren’t more.
Upwards his hand goes again, pressing the pads of his skin against the knuckles of the toes; knobby as well. Where the joints connect, little hairs rest on the wrinkles of skin, light and fuzzy. Light braces the foot against one palm and with his other fingers, curls the toes inwards until the joints pop! The cracking noise of joints can be attributed to the build up of gas bubbles in them and when popped, create that crack!
And with the way L melts into the sheets, it's comfortable for him.
Light does so until all the joints are popped and then pushes the foot upwards — up, up, up until it goes past the limit of his own and centimetres away from pressing against the shin. Double jointed. Light truly, and utterly is not surprised — he could tell from the way L sat on his hunches that his joints were double jointed in some way. It probably makes the way he sits easier.
L sighs, and Light abruptly realises that he’s stretched the Achilles muscle in a way that further relaxed him. It’s not a bad feeling, to have L unwind just from touch.
Rinse and repeat on the other leg — hand sweeping down the length, finding moles on the thighs and knees and ankles, hidden beneath body hair. A thin scar resides on L’s upper thigh and several on the joints of his toes from — from stumping them into things.
The idea is enough to make Light laugh under his breath. L’s hip twitches at the same time. Fasciculations; involuntary bodily twitches, origins derived from just being random twitches. No rhyme, no reason.
In the end, Light sits back on his heels as he settles L’s foot back down, once again framed by his legs.
L’s breathes steadily, heavily, eyes shadowed in the darkness of his hair and the room. The moon has shifted in position, higher in the sky, more light spilling in through the windows to shine light onto skin — so extraordinarily pale that Light thinks L has an anaemic problem rather than a sun one.
The chest goes up and down, ribs expanding at an outward angle. In the air goes, out comes the carbon dioxide.
L is so stunningly human, Light realises, again. He’s what happens when someone is stripped free of all care for social expectations, conventions, barriers and anything that prevents true expression. His personality is always on display, never stripped to conform; quirks, behaviours and ticks all to be seen because he simply does not care for the inappropriate associations with them. He does not wear shoes, because he finds the notion of feet being inappropriate strange. He is blunt, because he cares little for politeness besides for when he wants to be. L taps his fingers and bites his thumb and stares because that holds no meaning to him in a social context.
Sometimes, Light thinks L has changed him into someone more accepting of his own behaviour.
L doesn't care about anything much; Light is free to act as he pleases, because L will accept that because he simply does not care for what is deemed acceptable.
”L.” Light prompts softly. His heartbeat is like a battering ram in his chest, brain on fire.
L shifts, head tilting over so slightly to slide an eyelid open. Instantly, light catches on the surface of the eyeball and Light feels the way that dark pupil focuses on him. He hums, half awake.
Light shifts backwards out of the cage that is L’s legs. “Flip around, onto your chest.”
There's a moment's pause; L processing, then shifting. He first props his forearms on the mattress for support, then lifts himself, fat deposits making tiny rolls on his stomach as he curves upwards. In an instant he’s on his front, back open, legs open for Light to crawl back into.
And Light does, situating himself right there again.
L does not respond in any way, burying his face further into the mattress. What he could even be thinking is evading Light; hopefully nothing, that's the goal.
Slithers of black hair spill across his nape, so distracting.
So, Light grips L by the back of his neck — by the top of the Trapezius muscle, and pushes up, up, up until he hair is out of the way and he can see the muscle in full. Baby hairs tickle his palm, and Light has the brief, startling thought that L’s hair is so incredibly soft. Like silk. He holds the hand there, and L only gives a small indication of acknowledgement through his body going boneless — and that is just — just —
Light hangs his head to catch a deep breath, stars bursting across his vision at the notion of L being —
His other hand comes up to drag down his face so he can go back to thinking about what he wanted to do. The Splenius Capitis muscles of the neck flex under his fingers and that's close enough to drag him back to reality.
The back of the neck. The Cervical spine enveloped by layers of muscle woven together — the Splenius Capitis muscles diverging to create a dip at the bottom of the skull, a place where Light lifts his hand to press a thumb into. From there, the Trapezius muscle connects to the shoulders, trickling down to a single point mid back — a triangle in shape, a funny thought that something could be so geometric on something that is so inherently not.
Light finally drags his eyes down the expanse of L’s body.
It’s long and gaunt, shadows deep, angular bones at each and every single point. The contours of each valley of his body gives off the singular impression of decently strong — not muscular, but not bone skinny; somewhere in the middle, on the side of slightly thinner. His shoulders are surprisingly wide, dotted with acne scars up to the Scapula and down the width of the Trapezius muscle. Contrary, L’s face is spotless. Watari must’ve kept him from picking at the skin there and allowed it only on his back — somewhere where only those who truly cared for L would not care for those scars.
Watari was right. Light brushes light fingers across the raised skin.
L’s finger twitches in response. Light can feel how the muscles beneath his feather light touch unwind.
Light wonders just how long it's been since L has had skin to skin contact with another human that wasn't his caretaker.
The skin is slightly slick in nature, smearing his fingers in a thin layer that distinctly feels like sweat. When he brings it to his nose to double check, he finds himself right with the unmistakable smell of body odour — of L — permeating the surface of his skin. It’s not a bad smell — far from it. It’s something that just smells like skin, mixed with some kind of soap and another unidentifiable smell; likely L’s natural musk. It’s probable the sweat was produced from the heat compressed between the space of L’s back and the mattress.
Sweat production is not a particularly disgusting mechanism. The smell it can produce can be unpleasant depending on the person, sharp in a way that makes Light wrinkle his nose, but it has never disgusted him in the way it does other people. It’s access waste and other components expelled from the body through the secretion of skin — a simple bodily function, not this massively repulsive act that other people seem to think.
And in L’s case, the smell is not bad at all. It’s just him, one that Light thinks he could eventually find comfort in.
Light doesn't wipe the sweat off his fingers. Instead, it’s smeared across his skin when he rubs his fingers together in a tick; thinking.
L’s shoulders jump when Light eases open palms onto his back — onto the backplates, spine, ribs and hundreds of thousands of individual strands of woven muscle, fat and tendons. The sweat isn't slippery enough to cause any problems, so Light presses down each individual joint in his hands to feel what's under his fingers.
The nail of his right middle finger brushes against the top vertebrae of the Thoracic spine — sharp, is his first thought. Down, down, down goes the Thoracic spine, vertebrae knobby in a way that makes Light trail his left ring finger down it — pad falling into the pit of where each one ends, and where the next starts. Barely any fat or muscle covers it, instead thin, almost translucent skin is stretched across it — Light has half a mind to think that there would barely be a difference between the white of L’s bones and the white of his skin.
Once the finger reaches where the Thoracic spine curves into the Lumbar spine that creates the natural arch of the back, Light prepares to lift the finger — and then pauses. Shadows spill onto the angles of L’s body, and right where the Lumbar spine transitions into the Sacral vertebrae are two indents — small things that sit right at the hem of L’s boxers.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for Light to compute that those are back dimples, and when he does, he moves both thumbs into those indents to feel — and instantly, the back makes a series of pops! and cracks! The Thorambulacar muscle under his fingerprints unwinds and Light is hit with the simultaneous idea that the indents are the size of his thumbs, and that the lower back is the perfect space for his head to rest in.
Almost imperceptibly, L’s back curls just the slightest, tiniest amount — skin tightening, spine dipping, muscles taught with sweat almost glistening in the shine of the moon. Neck muscles twist when L’s head twitches, burying into the mattress, and he doesn't make a sound.
Light lifts his hands from the indents to spread it across the broad of his back again; start over again, back to where he wants to feel those muscles he has obsessed over for years — the Rhomboids, the Infraspinatus, the Teres Minor and Major and so much more that is palpable under his fingers. A mole sits on the edge of the Trapezius muscle, right where it curls over the shoulder.
The Scapula bones, connected to the joints of the Humerus bone to facilitate further movement. With the way L’s arms are rested next to his torso; palm up, the specific rotation of the bone causes fat to bunch up at the creases of his armpits — something Light finds fascinating to poke at until he bores himself, and then does it to the other scapula fat. He finds that if he is to bunch the fat up in a specific angle, then he can simultaneously feel the thin disk shape of the bone.
He swoops his hands down the curve of L’s back — down to where the Latissimus Dorsi connects, another massive muscle that curls around L’s side and up onto the spine, then to the edge of his jutted hips, angular in all the ways a bone should be. Three moles, positioned in a triangle shape almost, reside on his right hip.
A small, jagged scar trails its way from L’s left waist until barely to the middle of the Thoracic spine — white in age, done in a way that looks hasty and desperate. L has many strange scars on him, it seems; stories that Light has yet to unravel from him, because L is an enigma and there are many things he doesn't know.
Thumbing at the Thorambulacar muscle, right under the back dimples and on the bow of the Thoracic spine, Light finds himself thinking I have traced every part of L.
Fire sweeps through his stomach, down to the toes and up to his brain. He can feel red spreading down the length of his neck, hidden by his T-shirt, crinkling when he sits back on his heel and withdraws his hands.
”Done,” Light says, vocal cords feeling distinctly thick. “L?”
It takes a long moment for L to respond in any fashion, as if Light’s words are struggling to enter his head.
After a few seconds that Light counts as eight, L starts shuffling — forearms planted on the mattress, leaning onto them to heave upwards. His back muscles roll with the motion, Latissimus Dorsi twisting, Scapula moving beneath skin to balance L onto sitting on his haunches.
Yet, his head hangs, as if heavy. His hair has a distinctive glint in the light, bottom strands damp and it takes Light not even a second to pinpoint that as sweat. It sticks the tiny strands to L’s neck, only moving when L slowly tilts his head around to look at Light.
Light catches onto the wet surface of L’s eyeball, pupils dilating at the intake of light. Light has the abrupt thought that L has nice eyelashes, framing the lidded eyelids.
L’s jaw cracks when he opens it. “Thank you, Light,” He says, hoarse and Light feels the shameful urge to duck his head at the sound of it. L licks his lips, head lolling the slightest and he clears his voice of something wet. His neck pops. “It seems my… mental faculties have slowed down, in a way. It worked.”
Light tries smoothing his face into a porcelain mask; a task he fails in when he feels a tremor in his hand. “You’re welcome…it was fun, in a way.”
L doesn't respond to that note, instead blinking slowly. “I think….” He says, then trails off, as if his brain has stuttered on him. “…I need a glass of water. Excuse me.”
Light shuffles backwards, making room for L to uncurl his long legs from under him, balancing on one arm to situate them over the edge of the bed. With the way his torso is hung forwards, small rolls of fat on the stomach are created again, chest above expanding in a manner that just feels off.
The arms that support L quiver. The Bicep Brachii and inner forearm muscles flex for just a moment — a prepaperation for L to push himself forward and onto his feet.
The sound of metal clinking resounds in the open room. Light has completely and utterly blocked out the metal connecting them — his brain finding it unimportant in the labour of studying each contour of L’s body, it seems.
He lifts his own arm, metal curving around the shape of his wrist to lock him and L indefinitely together.
The chain snakes across the ground as L moves further and further down the length of the wall, one arm on the wall as he carefully moves himself towards the bathroom door connected to their room. Dexterous fingers fumble around the knob — slippery from sweat, and unlocks it to push himself inward and partially closes it, a sliver left open to allow for the chain to pass through.
A light turns on, a glint peeking through the crack. The chain shifts in motion, weight changing in such a specific manner that Light is hit instantly with the thought that L had sat down on the tile floor. A cold, sharp feeling that stimulates the body into having a clear mind.
Light presses a hand against his nape, looks away to the shattered screen on the floor — blue screened, cracked — then to the space that L had occupied.
The mattress sheet is crinkled, a dip of L’s body outlined in the twists of fabric. It’s presumably warm as well, and even though Light doesn't touch it, he can feel the superficial idea of it on his skin. He’s very, very tired.
And then — there, right where L’s head was resting, is a small, wet patch of fabric. Spit, Light concludes, small bite marks torn into the fabric invoking the image of L gnawing on the sheet. He reaches a finger across, pressing it into the wet patch to bring back damp fingers.
L had salivated a decent amount on that piece of fabric. He rubs it between his forefinger and thumb, then inserts the wet finger into his mouth; the taste of sweets and cotton and L exploding inside it, onto his teeth and tongue and gums.
Interesting, Light thinks, head suddenly feeling like a fuzzy swimming pool as he removes his forefinger. L’s salivary glands had produced a decent amount of saliva during the period in which Light had him on his front — and with the teeth marks, he had bit into it. Light doesnt feel particularly obligated in any matter to scrutinise why L had done so.
L is a strange individual, he could’ve done it for any reason. Light doesn’t feel a need to figure it out, not with the way he feels his own fingers start to shake further— from nerves, exhaustion, many things that naturally exhaust him.
So, Light tugs at the blanket at the end of the bed and brings it towards himself — grabbing a discarded pillow from the floor. He places the pillow down right on the wet patch, slips his legs under the cover, then flips his body onto his side to tuck it up to his chin. Absent-mindedly, Light remembers L’s trousers are somewhere on the bed.
L has not moved from his position on the floor.
The mattress smells distinctly of L.
Light’s gut coils tight at that, warmth spreading from his brain down through his heart, stomach and to his toes. Maybe it's heat from the blanket seeping into his nerves, maybe it's not. Light never really analysed his own emotions unless he wanted to, and this is something he’s happy to leave unknown.
Light is dead asleep before L ever comes back to bed. Only the fuzzy, film-like memory of a dip of weight next to him confirms that L had indeed come to bed, and with how Light had slept soundly for the first time in days, it seems L had fallen asleep.
No one is exempt from the effects of human intimacy, it seems.