Redeemer

There was no possibly cohesive explanation for it. None other than the fact that his mind was far too afflicted to think properly and judge the potential consequences of his actions. It was not consequences Mello thought of then but the savory hint of espresso he found lingering upon his lips, and how that complimented the ever-present taste of chocolate upon his tongue. Mello did not think. To think was to realize what a foolish thing he had just done. To think was to be aware of the wide eyed stares they were receiving from inside. To think was to imagine the look in L's eyes and the fury in Matt's. To think was to rationalize that for the second time in a week, he had his lips pressed to Kira's all too willingly and in that moment cared little of what would follow because the heat of his kiss and the press of that body was far too compelling to ignore.

And Light let Mello kiss him—returned the kiss even, as he’d done in the shower—that long molten stroke of his tongue, the breathless hard tangle of lips, raw and ripe against each other, Light’s fingers curling around Mello’s wrists, not to push him away but to hold him there—and he had to be aware, he had to know that two pairs of upset eyes were staring at them through the glass, that this was something to thicken the already existing tension to unpredictable proportions—but this time Kira hadn’t been the one to initiate it. It hadn’t appeared to even be part of his plan—if he had a plan at all just then.

Mello had taken the initiative and he almost wanted to stop and ask Light why, because Light could probably explain this outcome better than he could. He needed someone to explain it, because he couldn’t explain it himself. But at that moment—and it wasn’t the first time—Light’s mouth just felt way too good to pull away from, and the longer they kissed, the worse this situation would get…

And that was why when his breath failed him at last, Mello paused, leaning back ever slightly as if hesitant to do much more. Realization was pouring in; the gates opening and letting loose every thought previously kept at bay with a mind-blowing crash. Mello grit his teeth, making it a point to not look at Light. Hands fell away; digits brushing his jaw and soft fabric of his shirt before finally falling limply at his sides. His shoulder was killing him again and the bandages remained stained.

The silence was positively maddening and yet, perhaps for once, Mello did not know what to say. No one knew what to say it seemed, and from where Matt and L sat on the sofas, it was obvious Light and Mello were having great difficulty with how to proceed after that magnificent display. Matt was processing, or not processing—Mello had kissed Kira, had reached out and grabbed him like a lover and shoved his tongue down his throat—not a kiss to threaten him, scare him off, intimidate him—but a true kiss that was definitely not lacking where passion was concerned. And being as how they were standing outside on the balcony, there were no wires involved, so whatever it was they’d been speaking about—and it seemed Light had definitely been preaching his madness—it got to Mello on some level…and Matt was still trying to figure out how to react to that….

L, on the other hand, hadn’t moved. He sat there like a stone statue, his head slightly bowed, eyes drawn up, unblinking. It wasn’t so different from his normal behavior, and yet it was, and horribly so. The angst was peeling off of him, and as Matt looked closer, he could see those long fingers of L’s were gripping his knees so hard his knuckles had blanched even whiter than was natural for him…L had told Mello to get close to Light…Matt had to wonder if this was what he had in mind.

“Well,” the detective muttered, after a stifled moment, “That was interesting.”

And that was the most vapid response he could have possibly mustered. And yet, that was also when L promptly got up, climbed over the back of the couch, and left the hotel room without another word.

Matt’s entire expression knotted, and he was torn between flying out after the detective, who was simply impossible to read just then—or marching onto the balcony to either shove Kira over the railing or kick the living shit out of him…whichever made him feel better at that moment.

Mello, however, caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and directed his gaze inward. Expecting the worst, he was not surprised; flinching ever slightly as the door slammed shut and then, there it was, the confirmation that he had not only fucked up, he had done it on a grand scale. Matt’s expression was dark. The meaning was clear; there was something of a mix of worry and murder in those blue eyes. Worry after L and whatever the detective was thinking just then—why he’d departed so abruptly, and where the hell was he going? And Mello himself who would likely not make it through the night without adding a couple extra bruises upon that pretty face.

The last straw was bent as Mello stepped out around Light, sliding the balcony door open to inquire after what had just happened. The weapon manifested with frightening dexterity and within seconds Mello was staring down the barrel of the 12mm his lover preferred, coming to a dead halt just inside the doorway. He frowned but did not advance, waiting perhaps to see where this would lead. "Matt," he began only to be interrupted by a scowl.

"Don't. I don't even want to fuckin' hear it right now. Whatever games you're playing, Mell I suggest be stopped—because that, hands down—is the dumbest, most brilliantly fucked up thing I’ve seen you do in recent history—and that’s saying a lot.”

"Put the gun down," was all Mello allowed himself to speak at that moment, watching Matt intently. Despite how pissed off his lover might have been, Mello knew that he would not shoot. At least not to kill. And yet, it was still a bit worrisome. Mello had felt bite of that fist before, but had never been on the opposite side of Matt's gun. Not like this. Not with flying tempers. But even though it took a few moments, the weapon was lowered but not released all together. They stood like that for several more seconds until Mello moved further into the room.

"I'm going after him," Matt said, and the glint in his blue eyes was dangerous. Already too much time was lost. No warning was given, none was necessary. Angry he might be, but just then Matt was more worried about L than he was about leaving the two of them alone.

The door slammed a second time as Matt left, and Mello was just standing there, solitary, stunned as Light finally came back into the room. Light had seen Matt pull the gun on the most important person in the redhead’s life—and he’d heard L leave, but that, truly could have meant anything. Nevertheless, Mello’s gaze found him regardless, the sudden awkwardness between he and Light was palpable, he could reach across and touch it if he wanted to; because this time Light wasn't playing the snake in the garden, hadn’t come on to him on purpose to wound his lover…this time shit just happened, and neither of them quite knew what to do about it.

What was Mello supposed to say? What was he to do regarding a situation that had already spun out of control beyond his understanding? Mello frowned at the display of code that streamed across Matt's screen and hoped dearly that it was not vulnerable. No, he wouldn't have left it alone should it compromise their position. That just wasn't like him despite everything that had just happened.

But then again, this behavior wasn't like him either. Mello had obviously fucked around in the past. Sometimes out of business necessity, other times for the pure sense of indulgence, but not lately and most certainly not like this. Not blatantly in front of Matt and with the man who was, for the longest time, their number one enemy. Some could argue that he still was. The lines had grayed around the edges. What the hell had he been thinking? What the hell had led up to such poor decision on his part?

The light touch of those fingers had triggered it, as had the way in which he'd been pulled up onto his feet and loosely pinned between Kira himself and the balcony rail. As if with just that shared look, all sense and reason had become a thing of the past. As if it was all right to forget himself and indulge. For that is what it was - pure, unabashed indulgence because Light was untouchable - or so he played the part quite well. Untouchable, pristine, set so high above the rest of them that for a moment he wanted nothing but to sample the taste of those lips. What had been unexpected, perhaps, was the encouragement received as those hands brushed his wrists, as the kiss was returned.

Fuck.

Mello pressed his eyes shut, willing away the mental image; willing away the memory itself if at all possible. It was not so easy.

He caught Light looking at him from the side then, that gaze, those sultry almond-shaped eyes, they held too much allure even now. He seemed poised on the verge of saying something however, after minutes—was it even minutes?—of silence between them, and Mello wasn’t sure he wanted to hear him, there were illusions at work, a delicate balance teetering on the edge and Light had the power to shove it one way or another with whatever he chose to speak. So Mello found himself bracing for his voice…

“I’m sorry,” Light said softly.

And those were the last words Mello ever expected from Kira in any situation, let alone this one. His prior observations were correct, the world was on a different axis, and this situation had spun way off the field. There was a good chance none of them knew what was going on, and there was a good chance at least one of them did—the one standing next to him, the one who was drawing them in and devouring them whole one by one. If it was Kira’s plan to get under their skin and endear them to him to destroy this whole setup from the inside out…then he was winning.

And yet… what if this was the first time that Light actually hadn’t plotted for any of this? He was a good actor, but was he that good? Was he merely whoring himself to L to carry out a master plan? Or did he truly love the detective, however twisted it was? There was no longer much doubt that L had sunk far too much of himself into Light. One of L’s advantages all through the years had been his utter detachment from everybody—everybody except Watari, and the old man’s voice of reason and support was something L was severely missing. He needed someone to take care of him, brilliant as he was, he had always needed that. Watari was gone—his replacement…was Kira. And Kira had only ever wanted L dead…or did he? Was this a drawn out vengeance trip of Shakespearian proportions? Or was Light truly that fucking ruthless when it came to love? Intentional or not. Mello almost wanted to track down Amane and pick her brain about the matter. She played a good airhead, but he’d gleaned more off of her once or twice. A certain sadness, a certain defeat…how cruel had Light been to her all those years she was his lover? As cruel as he was to L?

But this wasn’t all Light's fault—this moment. He and Mello had reached this deplorable state together, and despite the clusterfuck of consequences they now faced, there was no regret in that kiss. Fuck.

“I don’t know what else to say,” Light murmured, that quiet pensive mood still clinging to him. “I’ll make you some coffee—and you should still have a look at those stitches.”

And with that, he walked off into the kitchen without the poise and purpose Mello was used to seeing on that proud figure…

Sorry? Mello lifted a slender brow in obvious surprise. Light was sorry? What the hell did he have to be sorry for when it was Mello himself that had made the move this time and for some, unexplainable reason? But he took it in stride. What else was he to do when the words simply... failed him. He watched him retreat into the kitchen and nearly immediately came the tell-tale sounds of mugs and cabinets and the espresso machine heating up.

Mello pushed himself up with a breath upon his lips, flinching ever slightly at the exertion. Stitches had most definitely ripped. Shit. Muttering incoherently under his breath, he padded quietly into the bathroom, flicking the light on with a wave of his hand across the switch. There in the mirror he saw the hint of stains seeping through the stark white bandages and sighed. But it was then that he realized that while he was indeed inspecting the bandages and began to tug them undone, his gaze settled on the silver cross that brushed his abdomen but... refused to follow the line of his own body to meet those traitorous green eyes. A bitter chuckle escaped him. He couldn't help it. The irony was too great. A room without mirrors - was that his ultimate end? Was that the only way to salvation now that he had come so far?

Bandages fell away in a heap around his feet and he inspected the injuries. They were not too bad, but constant movement had needlessly aggravated them. His arm would soon follow, he feared, cringing for the fifth time as he reached farther than he should have with his left. He heard the roaring of the espresso machine. It stopped after a few moments. The antiseptic was in his hand; wounds were cleaned, complaints silenced through gritted teeth all the while. He'd suffered worse, goddamnit. But he was not focused. His mind elsewhere and thus he was being careless.

"Fuck!," Mello hissed, dropping the gauze irritably into the sink. Hands fell to the edge of the cold porcelain, head lowered as he willed the self control he knew himself fully capable of. Where was it now? Why did it fail him so desperately now when it was most needed? White-blonde lashes brushed his cheeks as eyes were pressed tightly shut. His breath escaped him slowly. At this rate, Mello would drive himself utterly mad…

His touch was sudden and smooth and followed up along the sharp contour of Mello’s shoulder blade, and Mello should have jerked with surprise, but didn’t. Why? Because part of him expected Light to be there, to manifest like the spirit in the shadows without a sound, his skin warm and satiny, long fingers wrapping over tense muscles as he pulled Mello gently away from the porcelain and reached to retrieve the gauze that had fallen into the sink.

Mello’s gaze flickered to him, and Light avoided making eye contact, unwinding the gauze, taking care—too much care—to start binding the wounds. And Mello watched him hard, studying him, searching him, waiting to look into those eyes; but Light withheld that from him…knowingly. His gaze was almost demure, modest but seductive without being overtly so, his fingers brushing skin, tender skin—a light touch against Mello’s ribs, fingers paused over his hip to unwind the gauze, the gentle pressure to seal the bandages; and they were standing closer than they should have been—especially in light of what had just happened, what was happening at that moment. Had Matt found L? Were they in danger? Was L about to do something desperate?

For some reason those thoughts were worlds away from Mello, because the only thing right there in front of him, soaking up all the care in the world—was Light. And Mello realized he was barely breathing, that his cheeks were flushed, that Light’s skin glowed warm in the pale lighting; and when at last he looked up at Mello, finishing the wrap; there was no need to say anything at all.
The look was there in his eyes—the molten amber—inescapable; and Mello had never seen a look like that before. Which is why he slammed Light against the wall, and kissed him hard and deep and unforgiving.

Goddamnit….

All reason previously invoked at the wrong end of gun dissipated just as easily. All it took was a touch, a look. Silence thick, unbreakable. It didn’t matter. None of it did just then when reason was non-existent and the only thing in the world that mattered just then was the press of Light’s lips, so smooth, so sweet; strong against his own, returning the gesture with the same ardent passion Mello assaulted him with.

His right hand was at Light’s upper chest, pinning him firmly against the wall as if there was even any resistance to go anywhere. No such thing. Both were doomed at that moment; captivated by touch and feeling instead of the reason they prided themselves in. Mello’s left hand sought skin, raising only as high as he mustered without further exerting his shoulder which put it right at Light’s abdomen, snaking beneath the thin, soft fabric of his shirt to seek the warmth of flesh beneath.

That kiss was heated, demanding, bordering somewhere on the thin lines between lust and desperation with each brush of his tongue, and nip of teeth upon Light’s bottom lip.

And Light was going quickly breathless the more Mello sucked the air from his lungs, with one hand grabbing his jaw, pinning him back, leaning all of his weight into Light—fingers dragging up through pristine amber hair, pulling—pulling hard so that Light’s head was arching all the way back, so that Mello could bite at exposed flesh, wanting to drag his tongue down Light’s throat that was still so covered in that damn expensive knit fabric.

Mello’s shoulder pained him, so with that one good hand, he shoved Light again against the wall, his actions swiftly sweeping toward the more aggressive end of passion, reaching down, scrolling Light’s shirt violently upwards—and maybe it was the twinge of guilt and remorse Mello had shoved all the way down—deep deep down at this moment that was making him more exertive, more violent, slamming and scratching to bruise; but Light hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t rebelled, instead reached to help him, pulling the shirt up over his head tossing it aside, and Mello was slamming him back again—to hurt—to please, and Light groaned as Mello crushed close, pressing into him hard, almost painfully devouring his lips, his mouth, his tongue—the gnash of teeth and desperate breath and black polished nails raking down warm flesh. Light groaned, gasped, was reacting to every touch and scratch and bite Mello levied on him—and the sound of his voice was driving Mello mad. There was nothing hotter than Kira, warm and trembling and gasping in his arms and Mello clamped a firm hand down on the nape of Light’s neck and pulled him forward…

And again lips were on his, devouring and silencing every moan that built up in the back of his throat. Devouring him as there was nothing left behind, as if Light alone was the only sweet supplement left to savor. Fingers twisted into his hair, Mello’s left hand raking down the length of Kira’s abdomen – studying each bump of scored flesh, each contour of toned muscle to the bridge of his trousers. The belt was yanked open with a practiced tug, offering no resistance so that the black fabric fell open and sank lower still upon those narrow hips.

Teeth grazed his chest, leaving slight pink marks in his wake with each nip followed by the slow, meticulous brush of an all too talented tongue. As if softening the blow before and after each none-too-gentle, bruising bite. As if the distraction alone would ease the pain but Mello soon noticed, and reveled in the fact that with every sharp touch, each hint of pain, Light melted against him; those groans maddening, that hitch of breath upon kiss-bruised lips telling of the pleasure that swept through him in waves. The quickly growing throb in those designer trousers giving him away. A leather-clad knee pressed between Light’s thighs, teasing, taunting, gauging his reaction before going any further.

Already they had come too far. Lust overrode reason. Mello sank down, one lone knee brushing the cool tile floor. Lips brushed the sharp angle of hips...

And Light was leaning back against the marble counter, hands braced, fingers curling hard around the cold edge, whitening slender knuckles. He looked positively debauched already, and it was such an erotic transition—from the immaculate to the sexual, from the divine to the lust-ridden—that golden flesh, that lithe body rising up over Mello’s gaze; that handsome face stained with passion and Mello gripped the fabric of Light’s pants, dragging it down over his hips, lips brushing the sharp jut of bone, teeth grazing hard against the lean stretch of skin. Light gasped and jerked at the pain, and Mello bit him again, pinching tender skin between teasing teeth. Light was panting hard by then, and despite that confidence that seemed to rule him in every situation, there was something almost anxious about him—there in the face of Mello’s appetite he was vulnerable.

This was unknown territory between them, but apparently the magnetism had been there from the beginning; though in sex especially, it was easy for Mello to expose his darker edge. The very notion that Light was, or was at least pretending to be so vulnerable had his lust raging, and he sunk his teeth in at the sensitive juncture of Light’s thigh and hip—and Light made the most amazing sounds in response.

Mello smiled, breathing harder himself and pulled the fabric down just there, not freeing the obvious strain of desire beneath Light’s designer confines, but definitely making his presence known against that tender straining length. God, there was so much he could make him do—drag it out, make it last, play every weakness and strength against each other—but at that moment, no such games mattered. There was only one thing he wanted, one thing that could sate that throbbing lust in his veins.

“Naked, now,” Mello growled, pleased at the extra flash of vulnerability in Light’s face; pleased more that Light obeyed—he was already barefoot, his Japanese habit of not wearing shoes indoors contusive to the purpose at hand. Though Mello was impatiently stripping him of each remaining garment, clawing the clothing off of him, being sure to leave marks everywhere he touched until Light was naked and stung and cornered against the counter, and Mello was gripping his face again and sucking him deep…

His own trousers were too easy to loosen, a tug of a belt, a second tug of laces and the leather slid smoothly downward just enough as necessary. The kiss was heated, bruising. Light would be wearing the tell-tale signs of their excursions but that particular detail did not seem to matter just then - not as far as consequences were concerned. Right then and there, Light was his conquest; his toy; his pliable wanton ruthless God to debauch and manipulate as he saw fit. And thus, as Light's groans were stifled by Mello's own lips - his hand warm and merciless around Light's throbbing length, there was no doubt in his mind that whatever complaints existed toward one another were too easily overruled by the stronger pull of sex.

Mello gripped him firmly, taunting him until he shuddered, hands gripping and teeth grit against the pleasure. Who would have thought. But that pleasuring hand was removed and Light gasped sharply as if outraged. Grabbing his shoulder instead, Mello swung him firmly around and shoved him forward, bending that untouchable body over the counter and grabbing a firm fistful of hair all in one sweep.

And it was then, as Mello had 'God' where he wanted him, pinned between himself and the counter and all too ready for the taking that he released his hair, hand sliding around to cup his chin and tug that pretty little face upward. Digits slid across Light's lips, index and middle pausing just there. "Suck," he hissed huskily into his ear. "Unless you'd prefer to be fucked raw, I suggest you put that pretty mouth to work." A challenge if there had ever been one. It was not so surprising considering the nature of their day-to-day relationship.

Little time was wasted, hardly allowing Light to grace him with a reply before Mello's mouth attached itself to the sensitive spot where Light’s neck met his shoulder, leaving hard, short nips in his wake...

It was ironic, because in this position, bending Light over the way he was, the two of them had the vantage point of being able to watch everything right there in the mirror—their eyes met in the reflection as Mello hissed those words into Light’s ear, pressing his fingers to the moist, pliant lips, the trace of teeth marks and nail scratches already rising red to handsome surfaces. Mello couldn’t help but note that even despite Light’s willingness, there was a flash of rebellion there at the demand—a glimpse of Kira losing control of the situation and becoming aware he was about to be conquered. It was there, and there was only one way to counter it.

Light took both of Mello’s fingers into his mouth, closing his eyes—the long brush of lashes against deeply stained skin—his cheeks hollowing as he sucked, wrapping his tongue around knuckle and nail and fingertip and Mello smiled darkly, watching the lush sight in the reflection—growing increasingly hard against the back of Light’s thigh at the vision of a submissive Kira.

“Good,” he purred, licking Light’s shoulder blade, his free hand raking through Light’s hair, clawing down his back, making him jerk and shudder, before Mello grabbed his hip painfully, sliding his fingers from between wet lips, forcing Light to bend further down against the cold marble counter to get the best angle.

It wasn’t the best lubrication, but they were both well aware of that even before Mello pushed his fingers deep inside Light’s body—nails clawing into tender flesh that was terribly unprepared for the penetration. The resulting shudder that wracked Light’s frame—the writhing instinctive jerk to free himself, the sharp agonizing gasp and groaning—shot molten to the base of Mello’s spine and he found himself groaning at the pleasure of hurting Light in such a manner. Goddamnit the bastard was good—and he felt good inside—tighter than he should have been, and Mello was twisting his fingers, knowing his nails hurt, biting his own lips to watch Light writhing and moaning and clawing at the counter for purchase—there was definite pain in his voice, and Mello just wanted to hear it.

He twisted harder, clawed harder, opened him harder and Light was flat against the marble by that point, debauched, gasping—his gorgeous, marred back sloped in such a delectable way, Kira a slave to Mello at that very moment, and Mello felt himself getting carried away with the control he had when at last Light gasped that one little word that could have sent him right over the edge—his voice desperate and grating and enriched with the kind of masochistic pleasure Mello fed on—in that voice Light moaned: “Itai.”

Mello could have lost it then; that one simple, single word moaned in such a way that it sent ruthless shivers down his spine. He leaned over Kira's bowed body, forehead brushing his shoulder, breath hot against his skin. But the control returned just as quickly as it had slipped away and Mello dared a glimpse in that mirror that made their activities all the more obscene, and all the better.

The torment ceased momentarily, his touch almost gentle at that moment. As if that one word had made all the difference. In truth, it had, and while his initial ambition was to conquer and to hurt only to hear the magnificent cries Light was capable of, just then Mello wanted to pleasure. Those two intruding fingers twisted once more, but with a hint of practiced aim struck at that all too-sweet spot that caused Light to jerk and cry out sharply as white doubtlessly flashed before his eyes. Behind him, Mello chuckled quietly; his voice low and husky against the crook of Kira's neck. Digits were removed. He was quite ready.

A tug at his hair brought Light's head back up, those lashes fluttering rapidly against smooth cheeks; lips parted. Wanton. Mello felt himself stiffen almost painfully. "I want to hear you..."

As if he would give Light any other choice at this point. There was no warning between the point those words escaped his lips, the press of his hips and the invading throb of his length, burying deeply within Light's molested body. Mello groaned, gritting his teeth against that initial thrill of pleasure that coursed through him.

But Light groaned oh-so-much louder and his voice was just pure unapologetic sex. He took that first initial thrust as painfully needy as Mello knew he would, his breath heaving, those lean lovely muscles tensing hard under Mello’s grip, and Mello pressed his forehead to Light’s spine, the world flashing blindly before his own eyes, his own breath shallow and straining already for pleasure—he could feel Light’s heart pounding, pounding in time with his own, and after giving him only that one small moment to adjust to the unforgiving intrusion, he grabbed Light’s hips and started to thrust into him in earnest, his gaze training up over the lithe golden body, so very much at his mercy, to the reflection there—watching himself, watching Light, the undulating motion of his body as Mello fucked him hard and Light had pressed a hand flat against the mirror for resistance, the heat of his skin fogging the glass, trying to push back as Mello pounded him ruthlessly; every ravaging, needy thrust met by Light’s gorgeous voice—moaning raw and keening wantonly.

In the bedroom it appeared, Kira was a masochist—oh the never ending irony of the situation; the facets of complexity only seemed to grow—but what did it matter at that point? There was no real thought being leant to consequence; and Mello’s punishing strokes into Light grew harder, faster, his fingers digging, clawing scratching, grabbing Light by the shoulder and pulling him back into every jerking motion of his hips—stabbing into him deeply, and making sure to aim for that spot that obviously had Light seeing stars. The tremors wracked them both violently, and Mello found himself wrapping his other arm around Light to hold him close in the cradle of his own bowed body, scarred face pressed to smooth skin, closing his eyes and feeling it all far too richly for either of their own good—and still Light’s breathless groans were a thing of divine perfection, escalating, grinding, reaching that chord that shuddered hard and fast through both of them before rushing in an unrepentant burst of blinding pleasure. And Light was panting ragged, almost fighting Mello off where the blonde had him pinned, spilling himself deeply inside Kira’s debauched body, feeling the warmth of Light’s own climax across his fingers, the tow of them straining until there was just nothing left, and they collapsed boneless against each other.

Soon enough the soreness would sink in; soon enough every scratch and bite and ravishing thrust would slip through the thick veils of pleasure to hit them with a pain all together different from the warped pleasured that had just been indulged. For now, the world had gone out of focus, senses fuzzy, ringing, lips chapped. Breathless.

Mello was the first to move, muscles still twitching, his grip shaky as he released Light. Light’s hips were scored, as was his chest; that graceful neck bearing the angry signs of teeth and demanding lips. Mello lifted his gaze to the mirror; his eyes too green, too sharp. The meaning of all this had yet to sink in; pleasure still remained as did that misguided aggression he often indulged during sex.

He had just successfully fucked Kira. By God.

Mello did not suppress the quiet chuckle in time, stifling it against Light’s shoulder before releasing him all together. Teeth sank into his bottom lip as he withdrew from the warmth tightness of Light’s body, shuddering at the sensation.

Light himself hissed with pain, the rawness already settling thickly across him—he must have ached everywhere, the brutal scores of nail marks where the skin had broken beading little stinging trails of blood—there was blood on the back of his thighs as well, making Mello realize that perhaps his aggression had been even harder than he’d first supposed; he was lost in it after all, and for the most part was convinced Light was keening just to thrill him—obviously a lot of those over-sexed whimpers had been genuine. But Light never pushed him away, never protested—he wanted it as much as Mello did, and yet it seemed he required twice the effort to meet his reflection in the mirror. It was something he couldn’t admit—to himself, to Mello, and in the interest of self preservation, he began to reclaim his demeanor with as much dignity as he could muster in a position like that.

Those amber eyes, still framed by that flushed, obscene color brushed over himself and fixed on Mello still behind him—and there, seemed to say everything neither of them had acknowledged during the act. What had they done? Not to each other—but to them? Matt…L…. and why did Mello get the sense Light wanted him to feel the weight of that guilt just then? It was just a flash, a dangerous glimmer beneath dampened bangs—or maybe it was Mello’s own guilt starting to creep in from the edges and pinning the blame on Kira, still bent there over the counter—for the briefest moment Light looked like a victim, like he was about to play one; but then he straightened, breaking the gaze, coming back to himself.

The pain flinched in his face and he was containing it better than he had been while getting fucked senseless, turning then to face Mello, who hadn’t moved away from him, their bodies still pressed close together. Light didn’t speak, just studied Mello’s face—searched his eyes, trying to figure out what Mello was beginning to conclude about the whole thing—if he’d concluded anything at all. It brought to mind what Light’s first time with L must have been like…arch enemies suddenly intimate lovers—the boundaries must have blurred there, and continued blurring ever since and now look at the situation.

Mello’s hand skated absently down Light’s flank, flattened against his hip, thumb stroking thin flesh over bone. Why? He wasn’t sure. There was still some need in him to touch Kira—the sex had been good, better than good—had fed a need but sparked a hunger and Mello wasn’t sure of the aftermath. Light had seduced him outside on the balcony—not with his kiss, but with his conviction. Mello had never thought of Kira as religious—but he had only been thinking of religion in traditional terms until then. In that case, he had never met anyone with as much conviction as Light—and that was attractive to him, attractive like the smooth golden curves of Light’s abused body was attractive, like the way the welts on his neck were attractive, and that probing look in his honey-brown eyes.

It all seemed so spontaneous but it had been intentional, hadn’t it? This was Kira after all. Kira knew how to play the game—all the games. Kira was as dangerous as they came, making Mello believe one thing, while pulling another. Playing submissive to maintain superior. Light was himself, his own best weapon and Mello realized the devil had seduced him—he’d fallen for it and he wasn’t sure if he cared…

Kira stood before him, he had in the past, but never like this. Never this elegant, this convincing. Never dripping in such wanton appeal, still covered with the marks Mello himself had carved into that all too human skin, tasting of espresso and smelling of sex and expensive cologne. And he was a vision, a presence, a thing both conquered and unobtainable, but Mello’s guilt was there, luring just out of reach around the edges of his consciousness. He had practice keeping it at bay; those pesky emotions that oftentimes got in the way of what might just be the most important thing. Mello’s sins were great; piled high but still he carried on. Still he moved through his life with a determination measured not by what penance would wipe what sin, but what the next day would bring.

This was not in his plans. This had not even crossed his mind – not seriously, not in waking hours when reason took over and whatever vivid dreams his imagination might have given him were tucked away and locked firmly beneath the surface.

Mello’s breath was hot, lips so kissable close but that was not the intention. Not at that point in time. “Got me right where you wanted me, don’t you..?” Mello asked, meeting that amber gaze unflinchingly. The question, and even his tone, was a far cry from the aggressive accusatory tone he had used all too often in the past. His voice low, still tainted with lust but the question was honest.

Despite it all, his mind was not so far behind in catching up with the too-complex meanings of their actions. A game. Always a game. Mello had played a little too well, he’d fallen but he was aware. In the end, he was always aware but what would come next? What would happen when lingering sensations passed and the animosity returned? What would happen the moment Light shed his shirt and those delightful scratches were spotted and the truth made all too clear? But, rather than allow Light to respond right away, Mello reached up, his hand falling away from Kira’s all-too-smooth skin so that his finger fell lightly against kiss-bruised lips, momentarily silencing him. “…you still owe me that coffee.”

Light’s eyes fluttered knowingly, and his lips spread into a small smile. “It’s on the table,” he said, “Probably a little cool now.” Cool like him? He certainly was reeling back in the control, his gaze coasting over Mello, their coupled debauched condition—Light seemed sated, at least for that moment, and a bit amused that Mello called him on his ploy—or partial ploy, or game at least. Kira liked the seduction game, he played it well.

“You knew what you were doing,” he purred. And that coy gaze was tangling around the tether that still had Mello close enough against him to feel the heat of his naked body. Light seemed to like that as well. And did he think he’d gained something of a companion in Mello? Had he used sex to seal the idea or to expose his true colors? The decision seemed up in the air—he wasn’t rearing his deplorable nature on the situation yet, maintaining the seduction even as the afterglow settled and passed and reason started to return. But L had said several times that Light had a habit of using sex to get what he wanted… L had been playing Kira’s games for years, and had obviously been making greater sacrifices to do it—L had all but admitted defeat in the line of the devil’s wanton gaze. If L was the sacrifice on Kira’s altar, Mello had just betrayed him hadn’t he?

But what was more was whether he or Light would be the deeper wound? Ally or enemy? And had Light done it on purpose to wound his lover yet again? Was the only way he could harm L now by taking stabs at the heart L had so unwisely exposed? Kira was still L’s prisoner despite the luxury and the partnership on this case—and L had said Light didn’t like his leash.

“I’ll make you a fresh cup if you want, after I wash up,” Light said smoothly.

Mello watched him and knew all this would start to fall into place once the consequences themselves began to roll out of the situation. It was not going to be pleasant. Light saw him considering it, and boldly—unexpectedly, and very Kira, reached up and cupped the scarred side of Mello’s face in a firm hand. He stroked that course brutalized cheek for a moment with the ball of his thumb, his eyes like warm syrup, watching Mello’s silence twist, before he released him and moved away toward the shower to fetch a washcloth…

Once upon a time such a bold move would not have been tolerated. Once upon a time Light would have been wearing a fist upon that pretty face regardless of what had just taken place between them; regardless of the small seductive smile he still wore. The bastard. But Mello did not strike, freezing in place instead as that still too-warm hand held him; as that lone digit traced the ridges of ruined flesh. His gaze was cool, almost challenging without saying a word at all. And then the moment passed as quickly as it had come and Light slipped away, freeing himself at last to wash up.

Mello released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and watched the reflection in the mirror only briefly before tearing his gaze away. The faucet was flicked on; cold water splashed upon his face. It brought him back to himself - or as much as anything could just then as the weight of their actions - his actions - began to creep around the corners and close in at last.

He was the first to emerge from the bathroom, tugging the laces of his trousers just barely taut and securing them with a belt as he padded across the living area. It was then with that full emergence back into what had been turned into a work area, that reality gripped him in its ruthless iron fist. Everything was as it had been left. The front door remained firmly shut. Laptops blinked, awaiting input. How long had passed? How long since L had bolted from his seat in an angry frenzy? How long since he'd been staring down the barrel of his own lover's gun...?

Shit.

The coffee was indeed sitting on the table. Mello plucked it up and gulped it down as if it were anything more than bittersweet caffeine. Cool indeed. That was all right. A sharp snap of chocolate followed as he sank into the couch nearest the balcony window. Noriko was curled up along the back of the cushions, watching him curiously. He folded one arm over the back of the couch, allowing his forehead to drop onto the bend of his elbow. The position put strain on his injuries but it was minimal. They had not hurt until now - or they had, but that particularly pesky pain had been utterly ignored in favor of something else - something sweeter, something more raw.

What the fuck had he been thinking? The lure had been present between them, there was no denying that. But until then there had been plenty to stand in the way of such reckless behavior. Anger, dislike, distrust. It was easy to run down the list of reasons why until recently, Mello would not have even considered touching Kira in that manner. And then he had suddenly become human. And when the truth was revealed - Kira's own reasoning, his side of the story was set forth in the open and it made all the difference.

There was no excuse.

Mello had wanted him - he'd wanted to taste those lips that seduced so many in the past, he wanted to carve his nails into that body so pristine and held with such pride and arrogance. He'd wanted to beat Kira down and fuck him with all he had, always believing that he would have the upper hand and yet it was Light who had played him from beginning to end. And Mello had yet to come to the conclusion of what was worse - the betrayal he'd undoubtedly carried out toward both Matt and L alike, or the fact that he had been led as a pawn and enjoyed every last second of it.

A snap of chocolate and the uneven square fell upon his tongue. But for once, it held none of the answers.

* * *

It was easy to see him even from the car because he just stuck out so sorely at that moment—pale and tall and slender in his white shirt and jeans, the long tuft of jet-black hair spiked down and hiding half his face. He was walking quickly, determined, with an obvious purpose—hands shoved into pockets, shoulders hunched but not as hunched as normal, weaving between the tourists. Matt slowed down—he’d been circling the Roman streets for awhile now, boggled at how quickly L had vanished off the radar—and he found him a longer ways away than he’d been anticipating—proving L was a lot more adept at covering distances on foot than anyone expected.

Matt wanted to call to him, but he couldn’t just yell out his name, he couldn’t yell out his alias either because L looked so terribly different from the guise he wore as Shin Masaru that Matt didn’t want to take any chances. So he slid the window down: “Ryuuzaki!”

L didn’t respond outright, wasn’t even remotely looking Matt’s way; but seemed to weave closer to the curb. He didn’t slow down and didn’t acknowledge the car that pulled up alongside him, matching his pace, rolling along. Matt got the sense L had already known he was there.

“Please get in the car, you shouldn’t be out here,” Matt said as lowly as possible, and L’s dark eyes darted toward him furtively.

“I’d prefer if you returned to the hotel, Matt,” L said low and firm, still without missing a step.

“I’m not leaving you out here,” and Matt understood it would do no good to argue with him, when it came down to it, in his way, L was the most stubborn of them all. “They’re assholes, they’re both assholes.” It was the best explanation Matt could offer at that moment, without letting his mind go to all the places it desperately wanted to go, including what Mello and Light were doing at that very moment—now alone together.

There was a time that wouldn’t have been an issue, but now…

“He’s not worth it,” and that was Matt’s true position on the matter. Light was not worth this—not worth L running himself ragged, riding this emotional rollercoaster, putting himself in mortal danger at every other turn. How had it gotten this bad? Why did L care so much? Perhaps Light was a genius who could run his mouth about murder and make it sound like he was reciting Shakespeare; but Matt had yet to see one truly redeeming quality about the man. Maybe once upon a time Light Yagami was a worthy member of society who cared about his family, was truly the good son, and had every intention of joining the police force and earnestly following in his father’s footsteps—but that Light Yagami was long gone. Gone for years. What was in his place was nothing short of a demon in a pretty skin suit. Light should have died in the warehouse—begging and crying like the bitch he was. How had he wormed his way into L’s heart like this? How had he driven the impenetrable detective to these measures? …How had he wormed into Mello’s favor?... How had Light pulled any of it off? Were they all so blind even in their brilliance that they could not see the snake he was? ...Or did they see it all too well?

“Thank you for the concern,” L said sternly, “Go back to the room.” And with that he veered back into the crowd, same steady pace, peeling in between tourists toward the piazza where Matt and his car could not follow…

What choice was there?

Matt cursed furiously, slamming a hand down on the innocent steering wheel. L was gone, through the crowd and into the piazza where it would be all too easy to loose himself. But he could not follow. Already he'd taken risks - both of them had - and for what purpose? Goddamnit, Matt cursed inwardly again and lit a new cigarette from the dying ambers of the one still held between his lips until that point.

Digging into his back pocket, he withdrew his phone, hastily dialing the familiar number as the wheel was spun and he brought the car back onto the road, pulling up the tinted windows. Too risky. Kira's followers had seen the vehicle and could recognize it if they had cared enough. There had been no chance to get him a replacement and he cursed Mello's ineptness that night once again. What the hell had he been thinking?

What the fuck was he thinking now?!

The phone rang once and switched directly to voicemail. Matt glared at it through the yellow tinted lenses and clamped it shut, tossing it carelessly onto the passenger's seat. As much as he did not want to go back to the hotel room, L had just left him with very little choice. He couldn't tail the detective on his own without putting himself and L in further danger. Already too much time had been wasted. Fisting the steering wheel tightly, Matt retraced his turns back to the hotel, hastily parking the vehicle before racing his way up the stairs two at a time. No time for elevators. A family had just barged in, checking into the front desk with an excessive amount of enthusiasm.

Matt was breathless by the time he punched in the keycode and let himself in. Perhaps he'd been expecting the worst or... hell, he wasn't particularly sure what to expect at that point. There were no arguments, no discussions. His gaze settled on Mello, half drapped across the couch. Empty foil wrapping specking the edge of the table; various other pieces scattered across the floor from when Noriko had gotten her paws and teeth on it. Endless sources of entertainment. A laptop was open in front of him, a second - Matt's own, he noticed - sat beside him on the table. The coding remained untouched as he had left it, halfway into Near's mainframe. Mello could have pushed it along, but he left it up to him. It was a bit of an unspoken rule that'd been established between them several years prior. But whatever work might have been in progress had halted because those pale lashes were most definitely pressed gingerly to his cheeks, blonde tresses tossed haphazardly over his face.

And then, as he swept his gaze across his lover's body he saw it. A hint of scratches upon his shoulder, ever so faint and suspiciously fresh. Teeth were grit but he said nothing. At first glimpse, Light was nowhere to be seen. Interesting that Kira's absence at that moment was worse than his presence.

But the bathroom door was open and the water inside was running, and Matt stilled himself hard, but couldn’t contain it for much longer. He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to confirm anything; but he couldn’t stay away. He stormed passed Mello, who snapped out of his daze just in time to see his angry lover stop short in the bathroom doorway.

Kira was there, at the sink, in front of the mirror a clean towel wrapped low around his nude waist. He’d just gotten out of the shower, he was glistening and flushed from the steam, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was the eyeful Matt got of Kira’s body—the telltale signs of Mello—the scratches down Light’s back, over his shoulders, at his hips where fingers had dug in from behind while he was most likely being fucked raw. Teeth marks, peppered his neck and arms—and Matt knew all those marks by heart, they were his goddamn marks, not Kira’s.

Kira of course knew he was there, his edgy gaze flickering up in the reflection, meeting Matt’s bristling face without even turning around. He either smiled or Matt got the impression he did, because Light was in full control of the situation at that moment. He’d planned it this way—he’d aimed to cause a rift between them, and he’d done it damned good. It was in his face—the satisfaction—he’d whored himself for whatever plan he’d been chipping away at, and no one was more certain in that instant that Kira remained truly and abysmally evil, other than Matt….

* * *

The priest saw him from over the altar, steeped in the sacrosanct shadows of the ornate domed ceiling. He was seated in the middle of the pew, far down the aisle where the columns dropped heavy shadows across the length of the nave and leant a strange transcendental darkness even in broad daylight. At this hour, the roman basilica was not so heavily populated—between masses, with only a small trail of tourists circling the interior, and his presence stood out even though he was sitting there so very quietly.

Perhaps it was the odd pallor of his skin, the deepening circles around his eyes which stared ahead to the frescoes behind the altar, seeming to both study and ignore the sacred imagery in all its holy glory. He was ghostly, haunted, and so very strange—sitting there with his knees scrunched to his chest, slovenly dressed in jeans and a white sleeved shirt—rich black hair a haphazard mess in front of his smooth face. He was certainly foreign, perhaps Asian—more likely a mix, his features exotic, somewhere between refined and aloof, and those incredibly dark eyes found the father approaching him, and didn’t lift away.

He was no tourist. It was plain in his heavy gaze and he greeted the priest in fluent Italian, which was perhaps unexpected. If anything, the priest expected him to not speak at all, or perhaps only be able to speak in some language of the orient.

“Something wrong, my child?” The priest said, and that was how he’d struck him, seated there like that—like a child. But upon closer inspection it was clear he was no child at all. Perhaps he was of a special variety then, he was certainly not what one would consider normal.

“Please, sit, father,” he said politely, “I would like to talk to you.”

The invitation was too compelling to ignore and the father sat in the pew before him, draping an arm over the polished wood and twisting to face him head-on. “If you would like to confess, my child, the confessionali are over there. I could take you to them.”
Those large black eyes fixed on him—wide and pupiless and a slender finger was suddenly pressed to lips as if the stranger had fallen deep into thought.

“Perhaps when we are finished,” he said a moment later, somewhat oddly considerate.

Ah. He was agnostic. The priest had seen that look before.

“What has made you turn to faith today,” the father said.

Again that blank stare. “Can the devil be saved?” The stranger said suddenly.

The priest leaned back, quickly recognizing a conversation stemmed from personal dilemma and not from any theological curiosity. Not that he believed this man was in any way directly connected to Satan—he still seemed otherworldly enough to lend that question a very troublesome slant.

“In order to be saved by God, Satan would have to repent, an act which he is incapable of because he so firmly believed he was right in his rebellion. He deceived himself first, before anyone else. He thought that he could be worshiped above God.”

The smile was small and discreet but very much there on those pale lips—and it was bitter.

The priest continued considerately but resolute. “He will never repent because Satan is afraid of losing his individuality and independence over God.”

The bitterness was deepening, but the stranger didn’t reply, and the priest knew without even having to ask, that the chance of Satan being redeemed was paramount to this poor soul’s situation.

So the priest softened a bit, drawing on personal conviction he’d had long years to think over. “I believe that Lucifer was created as we all were—as a good spirit within Christ, and God is a Spirit who is unchanging, who is all good. Lucifer was a spirit in the Holy Spirit in Christ. When evil was created and Lucifer and God split from one another, Satan came into existence. Lucifer went out of existence due to that... but not out of being. Just out of presence in the body of the one who became Satan. Lucifer was good. Satan is evil. God will ultimately prevail and destroy Satan... and, thereby, restore Lucifer to holiness and goodness just as if he had never fallen... once again back in a perfected state. This is true of all who are in the kingdom of darkness—when all evil is destroyed, we still will be born of God... and all creation will be restored in the perfection in which it was originally designed, to be created through God who is good. In the end, in the battle between God and Satan - God is the only One left standing... and all of us are left standing therefore... in Him. God is good. And His mercy endures... forever.”

There was silence on the stranger’s lips, his gaze drawn down to the floor, his knuckles blanched where he held his knees tightly beneath long fingers.

“Yes, father,” he said softly. “I would like to confess.”