Redeemer

L’s fingers squeezed Mello’s shoulder when the doctor executed the next stitch. As usual, the detective refused any drug that would muddle with his brain—instead, even as woozy as he already was, he bore the pain in relative silence—the grip in those long, strong hands sole indication of how much it actually hurt. Mello was supporting him where he sat nonetheless, and the further into sensitive areas the doctor stitched, the more L’s weight leaned against his heir.

Dr. Gregory had already berated them both with a grating lecture on how they were incredibly stupid for a pair of geniuses, and that Light was 20 steps ahead the victor because he’d tricked them all into letting him live this long—and that essentially, L needed to ‘pull his head out of his arse long enough to see that,’ to which L vaguely responded, that his head wasn’t in his arse, but it was feeling rather bad all the same.

It was times like these Mello had to appreciate the detective’s dry sense of humor and L sucked in a hard breath, his forehead pressing to the blonde’s strong shoulder.

“What set him off?” Mello muttered at last.

“My assumption,” L managed through grit teeth, “Matt did.”

“Matt wants nothing to do with him,” Mello muttered. And a picture of Matt antagonizing Kira was just not fitting together in his brain.

“Ask Linda,” L hissed, as the nurse dabbed the open slits on his back with alcohol, extracting flecks of glass where necessary. “Light had been talking to her in the kitchen when I last saw him…ah—!” And L’s face instinctively burrowed into Mello’s chest as the nurse dug a particularly brutal shard from his shoulder blade. Spidery fingers wrapped unconsciously around Mello’s wrist, and Mello slid a comforting hand into L’s mess of hair, petting him like he would Noriko to distract him from the pain.

“What did you fight about then?” He muttered, watching Dr. Gregory wash the blood away before he started bandaging L’s arm.

“He’s Kira—we fight,” was L’s cryptic and unsatisfactory answer.

“L,” Mello chided.

“It’s between us, Mello,” the detective managed, his voice muffled. “He was angry enough for it to escalate quickly.”

Dr. Gregory slammed the gauze down on the medicine tray at that moment, and L’s head jerked up, pain-laced gaze fixing on the elder man, who leaned in close and annunciated rather angrily:

“Stop defending him.”

Mello frowned and against his better judgment, muttered. "Jus' stitch him up, doc-" but before he could even go any further, the doctor cast him a stern look that for perhaps the first time, had Mello blinking owlishly at him, silencing any further words he could have mustered. The reprimand far too effective. Now Mello understood why Dr. Gregory was the only person who could get away with lecturing L the way he did. So, instead, Mello returned his attention to the detective. "The argument might have been between you, but if it involves Matt as you believe it to be the case, then it's going to leak out onto us."

L hissed, biting down on his bottom lip as Gregory bandaged his arm tightly - perhaps with a bit more emphasis then necessary - but still offered no explanation.

"One of these days you're going to have to realize that you don't have to support all of this responsibility on your own,” Mello muttered. “From the moment we came on this madness, he's our responsibility as much as he is yours. Because while you may still be playing by those rules, he isn't."

And the worse part was that Mello was not even aware of just how deep the antagonism had grown between Kira and Matt - it had always been a problem but living in close proximity with constant baiting was grating on both their nerves. And while neither was physically confrontational as say, himself, Mello had no delusions that every single verbal jab Light took was stored away, only to boil to a point where Matt truly would have little issues in throwing the first blow. He'd already seen the signs - his lover was fraying around the edges and that cool composure would only remain in place so much longer.

* * *

Linda found herself between the two, not particularly sure which way to turn because while both were practically silent, she could feel the sparks of tension in the room. Kira was murderous and although Matt retained his cool composure, she knew him well enough to see the anger in those dark blue eyes, in the way he sat, the too-still manner in which he simply stood guard, sucking upon his blessed cancer stick for the calm and extra patience it afforded him. This was bad.

No. This was beyond all sorts of bad at this point, and Linda had barely realized it, so intent was she in digging into other areas of Kira's psychology that she had not focused on the internal consequences of what having such a person in close proximity could do to someone. Already she had been stumped by L and Mello both, but seeing as Matt's dislike had been so simple, she had not given it much thought. And now here it was in plain view for all to see. And as that blue visage turned toward her, not to look at her but over her shoulder at the figure who had managed to wiggle himself onto a sitting position and thus regain some semblance of dignity, she chewed upon her lip. "Matt..."

That blue gaze settled on her and she felt herself still beneath it. Shit. It wasn't just Mello who had changed in the last few years, albeit here it had not been so drastic. "What?" and he sounded so positively normal it unnerved her.

"Don't do anything stupid."

A slender reddish brow was lifted beyond the fall of messy bangs. "I'm not doing a bloody thing." The mock innocence was dripping with enough sarcasm for Linda to cast him a stern look. The redhead merely lifted a hand and set his sight elsewhere.

Light’s gaze hadn’t budged however—it was fixed on Matt, and the searing wrath had not abandoned him in the slightest. How. Fucking. Dare. He. The words were practically written across Light’s scowling brow, bangs drooling thin tear drops of L’s blood over pallid, angry features—his white button down shirt rusting with gory stains—and his silence was perhaps more disturbing than his complaining would have been—because sitting there as he was, even restrained, he looked so absolutely…monstrous.

He seemed very much aware of it too, his focus so intent on imagining the act of tearing Matt limb from limb that the rest of the world seemed to have just blotted away, fuzzing red at the edges…he hadn’t even blinked and Linda had to step out of his gaze because the weight of it was so staggering—and so red…red…

Light’s brow knit further as slowly he began to realize the change in atmosphere—he was mad as hell, god that went without saying, but literally seeing red at that moment? Had something snapped in his brain? Had he just given himself an aneurism? That would be perfect—he certainly felt the veins pulsing in his temples, his heart rate was through the roof, swaying him with a flood of seething anger…but the world looked red, and was blurring, inking over like someone had spilled blood on the inside of his corneas, and just then—there—as he was glaring, as he was so intent on murder, his bloodlust thick and insatiable, he saw…letters.

Letters—above their heads.

Linda saw the change in Light’s expression—the sudden immediate and immensely unnerving gaze of shock, as his narrow eyes widened to L-like proportions, as though he’d just seen a ghost.

“What’s wrong with him?” She gasped, and it was her tone that had Matt crook a glance over his shoulder at Kira who in that instant, threw back his head and started—maniacally—to laugh.

The tone of that laughter was familiar. Too familiar. It chilled Matt’s blood and in an instant he was up off his chair and crossing the distance with the sort of drive that caused Linda to practically jump out of his way. By god, he knew that laughter - even muffled behind the gag as it was, it was something he could hardly forget. The gag was carelessly yanked away. "Where's the fucking joke?" Matt snarled furiously, holding Kira up by the collar of his shirt, never once guessing the disadvantage they had all fallen into at that horrific moment.

Light couldn’t get control enough at that moment to give any answer—his bloodcurdling laugh filling the floor and echoing off the walls as though this place was the asylum and he was the lunatic—that goddamn laugh from the warehouse—that audible testament to the brink of his sanity.

And at that moment, Matt threw caution to the bloody wind and cracked Kira hard across the face to shut him up. Light’s head whipped to the side, hair falling forward—he went absolutely silent long enough for the slap to resound, for the sting to set in, for Linda to gape and Matt to ball his fist ready for whatever retaliation—and then Light’s shoulders shook as he tried to repress the irresistible giggle.

“The joke?” Kira hissed—his voice strained, cracking, deep and absolutely frightful; “I don’t think you will find it as funny as I do.”

Matt’s expression twisted hard, and with both hands he hoisted Light up by the collar again, Light's amber hair falling far enough out of his face to allow Matt to see those insane eyes—and Kira met his gaze, even at the physical disadvantage Matt had him in, he stared devilishly into Matt’s face and grinned, eyebrows slanting up like the devil he was.

The redhead's patience was gone. “Really? Why is that, you detestable fuck?!” He growled, shaking Kira hard by the shirt.

Light cackled, but sucked in enough control to deliver his terrible punch line: “Because—Mail—that’s the dumbest name I’ve ever seen in my life!”

Linda didn't get it. Not at first. Not when she had never been privy to such details—see, that was the funny thing about Wammy's House. All true names remained anonymous from the moment they set foot into the place. And so after knowing both Matt and Mello for the majority of her life, Linda had not once gotten a proper introduction. After a while it felt as if it was not needed, as if that detail was minor in the grander scheme of things. But as she stood there, puzzled, it soon dawned on her.

The way in which Matt froze, nearly dropping his cigarette was indication enough. Dear God - a thought they both shared without speaking it. And while Matt still clenched onto Kira's collar that hold, albeit firm, twitched with the brunt of the blow. It might as well have been a physical blow because right there, at that moment, they had lost every last bit of advantage they'd held over Kira's head.

"Linda," Matt said with a stillness that set her on edge almost as badly as the previous sound of laughter. "Go check on L." She opened her mouth to argue, clearly the only one left thinking rationally, but he beat her to the punch. "Do it," the redhead hissed. "Don't fucking argue with me now, goddamnit. Just go."

She was racing down the hallway, fear cold in the back of her mind, for what Matt was capable of doing at that moment—Kira had their names. Oh god! She bolted down the long corridor through the next wing where the medical rooms were located, bursting through the door with her heart pulsing a mile a minute and her breath hitching in her throat.

All eyes were immediately on her as she came to a halt, gasping sharply and trying to mouth the words now that the panic had crept up on her. "The eyes-" she gasped, drawing confusion all around. "Kira's got the eyes!"

“What?!” That was Mello. “Linda what are you talking about?!”

“Kira—Light—he just, he just said Matt’s real name!! He’s got the eyes! I don’t know how but he’s got the eyes!” She collapsed into a sobbing fit because the fear had built up, was ready to explode, her mind racing back—she’d left them alone—oh God, “Matt’s with him now, Mello—I don’t know what he’s going to do!!”

There was enough insinuation in that statement that had Mello off his seat and running for the door.

Behind him, L had gone a whiter shade of pale…

* * *

Boots thundered down the hall that had now seen more action within the span of an hour than during the entirety of their stay. This was crazy – no, this was utter fucking madness! And Mello skidded to a stop in the bedroom doorway, Matt had Kira on the bed, hovering, all patience exhausted, all sense of the truce signed when Matt had followed Mello into this mess completely and utterly forgotten – no, more like abandoned. Light was sporting a split lip but even as he was pinned against the mattress, the redhead’s hold around his throat bordering on strangulation, he could not help the unhinged giggles that spilled from those lush, blood stained lips. Because even as he saw the distinct hate upon those blue eyes, he heard the familiar sound of heavy heels and leather racing to his rescue. The irony was too great. Almost as great as this new discovery and thus… Kira laughed.

And then it all happened too quickly. Matt was up on the bed, down on one knee, practically straddling Light’s still-bound form. Free hand reaching behind him to free the Beretta from the waistband of his jeans just as Mello raced into the room. The cold, harsh barrel was pressed to Light’s forehead. Instinct overrode common sense and Mello’s own weapon was pressed against his palm in an instant, its target his own lover. “Put the fucking gun down, Matt!”

The redhead glimpsed up unflinchingly. “You dare pull that on me when this miserable fuck just pulled his trump card?”

Shit. Mello lowered the weapon, holding out a free hand and motioning him for the semi-automatic.

“He’s got the eyes, Mell. There sure as hell was no shinigami here to do the trade, but the fucker’s got them. Explain that to me!” he hissed. “Explain it to me why I shouldn’t put a bloody bullet in his head and put an end to all of this once and for all!”

That… was a goddamned good question, wasn’t it? Mello felt those intense red eyes on him but did not dare to look at Kira. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps not looking the devil in the face when it mattered most was Mello’s greatest fault of all, perhaps it would have been different and he would have agreed – even volunteered to do the honors. But he didn’t. Because even then he knew there was more to all of this. Even as Light was becoming something not of this world – such healing powers, such immunity to the murderous weapon he called his and now… the Eyes. He had the ultimate weapon against them all– not just Mello and L but now Linda and Matt too. “Give it to me…” Mello said, summoning the firmness to his voice, a firmness he did not feel at that particular moment.

Matt narrowed his eyes, his scowl darkening. He gave Mello the gun all right; tossing it at his lover, enough distraction for Matt to haul off and slam his fist into Light’s face before Mello lunged to drag him off the bed. Thankfully he offered little resistance, knowing it would be futile. His breath was ragged, however, his temper flying off the deep end like Mello had never before witnessed. This was bad, truly bad and Mello jammed himself between them, pushed Matt back, his hands falling to either side of his lover’s face so that he could redirect Matt’s gaze toward himself. “Look at me,” he snarled. “Look at me!” His grip tightening. Demanding. “Cool off, you hear me? I need you to cool the fuck off right now!”

Ha.

L’s form appeared in the doorway at that moment, Linda and the doctor not far behind, but still in the hallway at a safe enough distance, and Mello could hear Linda trying to stifle the sobs—it was too much at once, all too much at once. She was leaning into the doctor’s arms, and maybe her emotional state was enough to get Matt to start reeling himself in; breathing hard where Mello held him against the wall, trying to will him back to a rational frame of mind.

L said nothing, but his presence pervaded the room, his gaze drawn to Light, writhing on the bed, trying to get the hair out of his face—healing beneath the blood drooling from his lips and nose. Despite it all his gaze was still taunting, still cunning, still something to be afraid of, seeking Matt out—grinning.

It took the redhead’s everything to refrain from rushing over to deck him again.

“You’re better than this,” Mello was saying, strong hands on tense shoulders; “Calm down, leave it alone.”

“Yes, Matt, please calm down,” L said at last. But his voice was off where it shouldn’t have been, as though he was forcing it to sound normal.

Mello’s gaze shifted to him, drinking in the detective whose eyes were still locked on Kira; and if ever L was unreadable, it was at that moment. He did however, seem quite lost in his thoughts, his deep black eyes as introspective as they’d ever been, and Light had noticed him, but didn’t seem to care—because Kira knew Matt couldn’t touch him as long as Mello and L were there—regardless of what he said or did.

The sentiment was visibly eating through the redhead and he was trying to maintain eye contact with Mello and not look at Light, but it was proving difficult because he was so damn angry—so damn frustrated; when had the closest people he had turned so vilely on him? On the whole bloody world?

“I think tea is in order,” L said after a moment, and at those words he chose to look at Matt and Mello. “Let’s go downstairs so everyone can calm down and we will sort this out.”

Matt’s jaw grit but he said nothing, and Mello tried to see what was there under L’s very forced surface, but he couldn’t—he just had no idea what the detective was thinking at that moment; and L’s eyes met his suddenly, a grave determination in them—a sense of command that made Mello take Matt by the arm, coaxing him out into the hall and away from Kira’s presence.

L followed them a few steps, but stayed where he could keep an eye on Light, who had gone back to a fit of victorious hysterics. “Linda,” the detective said. The girl collected herself enough to look at him. “Please accompany Matt and Mello to the sitting room—make them some tea, make me a cup as well; I’ll be down shortly.”

She nodded, and Mello knew when L didn’t want them around. What he planned to do to contain Kira, the blonde wasn’t sure, but as they started toward the hall, he saw L approach the doctor. It was most likely the case they would sedate Light and wait for this current fit to blow over—probably restrain him proper in the hospital bed; in which case Mello didn’t see any need to interfere. L would be down when the job was done, in the meantime, Matt may have been doing his best to keep it together, but he was still shaking, and obviously still quite blinded by his own emotions.

L watched his three protégés descend the steps, his ear trained on his lover cackling and mumbling almost incoherently in the next room. Dr. Gregory looked grim, but was prepared to tolerate whatever L decided needed to be done at that moment to sustain Kira yet again.

“I’ll get a sedative perhaps?” the doctor mumbled.

L swayed a bit where he stood and didn’t acknowledge the statement. “This is my fault,” he said after a moment.

The doctor sighed. “Forgive me if I don’t entirely disagree; but there’s nothing we can do about that now.”

L stared off into space. “I’ve put them in this danger when I swore to protect them...now Kira has their names..." He hesitated, he hesitated for a long moment and it seemed he was wasn't breathing, or if he was, he was breathing too shallow. "I told Light earlier I would not choose him over them.”

“But you have, haven’t you?” The doctor muttered.

L turned and caught the man’s gaze. “No... I haven’t.” He stated.

Dr. Gregory went silent—he wasn’t one to normally look anxious, but he looked anxious just then.

“I want what I told you to put in the safe,” L said, his voice low, “Bring it to me, then join them downstairs for tea. Say nothing—and I’ll be down shortly.”

The doctor’s head bowed, gaze falling the floor. “L—” he started, but the detective held up a hand to silence him. “Just do it, please,” he whispered.

* * *

The tension was suffocating, but Linda was doing her damned best to contain herself and get her hands to stop trembling long enough to fix the tea as had been asked. Matt was pacing. To and fro in front of the opened windows, but not even the cool morning breeze and the scents wafting from the garden vineyards beyond were enough to cool the bristling anger that still boiled deep within him. To and fro. The length of the sitting room. A cigarette upon his lips. Mello, on the other hand, had sunk down onto a chair, the firearms placed down on the table beside him, but that was the least of his worries. He was leaning forward, head in his hands as he considered the ramifications of this new development.

Shinigami eyes. How was it possible? How could Light have attained such a thing without the trade, without so much as a shinigami anywhere in the general vicinity? It didn't seem likely. It didn't seem possible! His mind was spinning, emotions and thoughts reeling beyond comprehension. Through it all, he had not looked at Light. Had not looked into those murderous eyes, because Mello knew it would have made a world of difference.

Shit. Mello exhaled, fingers digging into blonde strands. What was happening here? Just what was going on? Matt kept pacing, pausing only ever so often in front of the windows to lean upon the sill and ground himself. Damnit. That was when Linda approached him, dainty British teacup in hand. It took Matt a few seconds to gather himself, but at last he looked at her and even though she saw the anger still evident upon his features, he was trying to reel it in. Truly trying, if only for her benefit. The tea was taken with a muttered thanks. Leave it to L to resort to food in order to get through a crisis - granted it was more than obvious that the tactic had been laid out so that he could do whatever was necessary upstairs without them getting in the way.

When she approached Mello, he did not even look up, too withdrawn into his own head to realize that even though she had already put down the cup on the table beside him, she was crouching down to gain his attention. It was too complex a situation to fully grasp and Linda was left scratching at the surface. "You all right?" she asked quietly because while Matt was visibly furious, Mello had gone from peacekeeper to simply withdrawn.

"I should be asking you that," he returned. Alas he was still listening after all. It took her by surprise, but the girl managed a faint smile all the same.

"I'm fine..."

For how very long, however, was the question, wasn't it? But... it wasn't she who should feel threatened. In fact, she did not particularly fear for her life just then. Not in the slightest - not when Light had been most graceful to her earlier that morning. God. That had only been a couple of hours ago, if even. It felt like an entire eternity away. No, it was Matt she worried about, and with reason. Linda frowned, her eyes lifting up to the redhead who still stood at the window, tea set on the sill beside him, still untouched. He was a threat as far as Light was concerned - and not the sort of threat Mello posed, no, that was the sort of game Kira enjoyed. This was something all together different.

Footsteps made all three of them glimpse up, but it was only Doctor Gregory that entered the sitting room, looking grim. Too grim perhaps.

"L..?" Mello asked. The doctor's response was a shake of his head.

Shit.

* * *

Light was at last calming his hysterics when L slipped into the bedroom. The doctor followed the detective, but only so far as the doorway, looking grimmer than usual. “Let me do it,” he said, his voice hushed.

“No,” L replied, taking from him a small wooden case. “Kira is my cross to bear, I have always maintained this. Thank you for your help doctor.”

Dr. Gregory lingered where he was regardless of the dismissal, and he wanted to say something, but the detective refused to look him in the eyes at that moment. It was a long pause and L finally said without turning around, “Please tell Linda no less than ten cubes of sugar in my tea.”

The doctor winced, probably because L sounded so false when he said it, but the man at last nodded, and glancing at Kira, slowly closed the door as he left.

Light watched him, the redness fading from his vision—it had been fading ever since he’d calmed down; seemed the Shinigami Eyes were in their infancy—but it didn’t matter, as far as he was concerned he got exactly what he wanted out of them.

“You always sound like such a martyr when you say that,” Light simpered, angling his head to follow L’s movement across the room.

“Say what, Raito-kun?” the detective muttered flatly.

“Kira is my cross to bear,” Light replied, watching the detective with the little wooden case, curious, but not drastically so. “I suppose it has a dramatic ring to it—”

“I feel it encompasses the problem quite accurately,” L replied, setting the case on the small boudoir table near the balcony doors. He had yet to look his lover in the eye; that more than anything was most telling, and Light winced.

“What are you doing?” his guard sounded up.

L opened the case and withdrew a syringe. “It’s a sedative, Raito-kun,” he said calmly.

“I don’t need a sedative, L,” Light growled. “In fact, I don’t need to be restrained either—”

“My lacerated arm says otherwise,” L returned, filling the glass needle with a solution.

“So you’re bitter about that,” Light muttered irritably, squirming around on the bed to get a better view of what his lover was doing, catching sight of a second syringe being filled after the first.

It was that pronounced hesitation on Light’s part that made L’s hand shake, and he finished filling the needle quickly; his breathing shallow again, his vision threatening to ink over.

“L—” Light said insistently. “What are you doing?” His guard was more than just up at that moment—and it wasn’t until L managed to fill the third needle that Light’s frustration turned to anxiety. “L?! L—what the fuck?!”

L grit his jaw, turning at last, his eyes not connecting however as he gripped the first of the three syringes in his hand. “I told you, Raito,” he said softly. “It’s a sedative—it’ll help you sleep so the rest of us can cool down.”

Light recoiled—if anyone could tell when L was lying, it was him. He shifted across the bed, trying to put as much distance between him and his lover as he could. “L—wait—wait—L, don’t,”

L grit his jaw hard, reaching out to grab Light back, folding onto the bed with him, even as Light tried to struggle—perhaps half in disbelief, half in panic—making it that much harder than it already was. “L! Don’t! Please don’t!”

It was a struggle for L to get his arms around him, to pull him close and cradle him tightly, “Shsss, baby,” he muttered, stroking Light’s hair, not realizing the tears were already rolling hotly down his own face, that the trembling was shaking him deep in his bones—his heart pumping so hard, so desperate—as desperate as Light was to beg him not to do it. “It’s just to help you sleep—” L whispered, shutting his eyes tightly as Light at last broke down, sobbing against him.

“L—please, please—I love you, you know I do, I would never hurt you—I wouldn’t hurt them, I know what they mean to you, I couldn’t do it—L please, you know me! Please—”

L bit his lip, and ironically Light was burrowing tighter against him rather than trying to escape; Kira’s tears hot against L’s neck, soaking into the collar of his white shirt, and L was holding him so tightly, crying silently into his hair. “I know, Raito,” he whispered; “I know.”

“Oh God, L please! I don’t want to die! Don’t damn me like this—L—don’t! I don’t want to die—I don’t want to die!”

“It’s my fault,” L murmured, his grip so tight around his lover that he couldn’t even feel his own body anymore. “I let it go this far—I failed us all—please forgive me.”

Light was shattered, his sobs scraping raw in his throat, interspersed with the kind of begging that would haunt his lover for the rest of his life—however long it may prove to be. In damning Light he was damning himself—he knew it, it was always the way it was meant to be. Kira and L would go together—destroyed by each other because one could not live without the other in the end. When Light was gone, L knew he would follow soon enough—perhaps have enough time to put his affairs in order, to make sure Mello could sustain; and whether it was the Shinigami who wrote his name down in the notebook for breaking the rules of the game; or the fate of a broken heart that would waste him away to nothing; L couldn’t be certain—he just knew it would be.

“Please I don’t want to die—”

It had come to this at last—and not in any way L had expected. But he knew deep down, he could no longer risk the lives of Mello and Matt and now Linda. They were his responsibility—they’d put their faith in him all these years—and Kira was too dangerous to trust. The game had spilled off of their own private court, it threatened innocent lives and L knew he could no longer justify the risk. Kira was his cross to bear, and now he would bear it—nail himself to it, and die upon it.

“L, please—” and Light gasped when the syringe pierced his arm, slid into flesh, the warm flush of the solution—Sodium Pentothal—shooting quickly into his bloodstream. It would render him unconsious in seconds—a medically induced coma so he wouldn’t have to bear the rest. After all this time of waiting for him to wake up, of praying for him to live—L was going to end it forever. This was not the way the game ended; but Light was going limp in his arms, tears rolling down his face as he gasped, his breath shallow, eyes out of focus as his lids closed—he didn’t feel the two other syringes, he was gone by that point, which was good, because they were painful—the paralysis, the cardiac arrest; it stiffened his body in his lover’s arms; but L held him tightly the whole time—held him tightly and prayed, because he’d just delivered the only person he loved—his soul mate, his life mate, his worst enemy and truest friend—to that fate worse than death, that fate that had tormented them both for so many years…

There was no life in that beautiful form anymore—and L felt it go away, he felt it leave his arms, staring straight ahead at the wall, tears bleeding from his eyes with such devastation he thought he would die then and there—and that was before the sobs came; silent, punishing, wracking him to the core as he pressed his face into Light’s hair and cried until the room spun…

* * *

The fact that more than an hour had passed and they were still waiting had grown the anxiety in the room tenfold—or at least in Mello, because he kept looking to the doctor, and the doctor was pretending it was business as usual. Matt hadn’t noticed, he was still staring out the window, and Linda seemed awkward, although she was pulling herself together, doing the math in her head, as though preparing to offer up some solution when L at last came down the stairs to join them.

He didn’t look right. He didn’t look right at all—his face hollow, his eyes reddened, he walked stiffly, and somewhat straight, and his hands were shaking.

Dr. Gregory jumped up, taking the detective by the arms, as though he already knew what was wrong—as Mello had suspected—and Matt turned as if to say, What did Kira do now—but the doctor was helping L into the chair, and the detective was letting him because he didn’t seem too in control of his own movements just then, taking the tea as it was pressed into his hand, but not looking at it—not looking at anything really; his gaze blank and staring straight ahead into some other world.

Mello had straightened on high alert, and Linda was right back to being terribly distraught, and L took that first deep breath to speak—but he didn’t right away, closing his mouth again to think; before the words came—distant and stark and…unbelievable.

“In consideration of the new risk involved,” he said, and his hands were shaking so badly, “I’ve decided to close part of this case… I’ve finally come to accept that the danger I’ve put you all in was unwarranted and I can no longer tolerate my own actions in that regard. My apologies to you all for ever having drawn you to this point—and for the great pain you have already endured on my behalf.” He took a breath, still having yet to clarify what was beginning to sound horribly serious. “I’m afraid the deadline has been cut short,” he said after a moment. “At present I must look to a quick and seamless transition of my title to Mello, as I’m not sure of our current timeframe now that Kira…has been put to death.”

It was a palpable silence that followed. The sort that you only see in movies, or read about in books. A silence brought on by shock – complete and utter shock – over what L had just announced. At least that much was felt by the three of them, for Gregory had already known what the announcement would bring. This bit of news had been meant for them. But as to the individual feelings regarding the matter, it was harder to read. Harder to predict when everything was just so utterly fucked beyond recognition.

Linda gasped, hand lifting to her lips as she stared wide eyed at the detective, disbelieving the harsh words spoken. Or would, if she had not been able to read the sorrow upon those deep set eyes; the fatality in those blackened depths. L looked lost to her. As lost as he had determined an hour ago. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure what to feel regarding the matter – saddened perhaps, beyond the element of shock that afflicted each and every one of them. Saddened for L’s sake because she had witnessed the sorrow he’d endured the previous week. The desperate sense of loss that accompanied the shrill steady beep of a flat-lining heartbeat. The equally desperate way in which he played the violin for hours on the balcony, ignoring all else but that raw emotion. That was real.

But so was this, wasn’t it? She felt her throat tighten along with something in her chest but could not bring herself to say a word. Not a single goddamned word because despite it all, she was still the rookie, she was still not up to par with all there was to understand and now… now there was nothing left to comprehend was there? Nothing but to look forward and deal with the situations as they came. Oh god… she heard herself in the back of her head, staring at the drawn expression on the detective’s face and wanting nothing more than to wake up from the nightmare that had most definitely been set upon them.

No such luck. Reality was not so kind. Even Matt had been stunned to silence, staring on in disbelief because this, of course, had been the very last thing he’d anticipated. L had always vowed not to pick Kira over them but this… this was… sure, in a way what he had always hoped for but not like this. Never like this. Despite his threats and anger, L’s own life had not been worth it. Damned be the deal, damned be the fucking rules – who even abided by them at this point?

In a way Matt could not help but feel guilty for what had just happened. Sure enough, his frustration had been justified but… no. Guilt would not get them anywhere. Shit! Torn, and left at an utter loss for words or even cohesive thoughts, Matt leaned back heavily against the window he’d been looking out of for the good portion of the past hour, gaze now falling to the floor in front of him.

What had been expected, however, was not heard. From Mello there was no outburst, in fact, he had not said a single word after several moments of silence. He sat rigid in his seat, staring at L and yet his features were positively unreadable. But those eyes, those too-reflective eyes shone with contained emotion. He’d always been the one to go over the top, always the one to express what he felt before anyone else. Always the one to let it all bare even under the most critical situations and now… there was nothing but that utter stillness. Should one look closely, fingers had tightened onto the arm rest where his left hand had happened to lie at the time – about to stand when L delivered that positively shocking piece of news. Suddenly Mello’s body had lost the momentum, the drive to lift him off his seat.

In fact, it had lost much of everything at that moment because it felt as if the abyss itself had opened up to engulf them whole.

Perhaps not them – no, they remained there in the brightly lit sitting room. Light, on the other hand… Oh God… At last, the faintest of breaths slipped past Mello’s lips. Instinctively, he’d flicked his right hand but felt none of that familiar comfort at his wrist; the cross did not fall into his palm – he’d given it to L several days prior. Oh God… What had they done? What had it all come to? His throat felt dry, constricted.

L was on borrowed time. More so than before. When would Ryuk come back to finish his end of the deal – one whose rules L had just broken? Would he even come back or would L wither himself away to nothing. … nothing. Verzeihen Sie mir… Nothingness. Damned, wasn’t he? Damned to the darkness he feared the most. And L…

Mello felt at last that first thread of emotion begin to seep through, free itself from his shocked paralysis. Mello was up then. Fast enough to draw unwanted attention but it did not matter. Who the fuck cared right now? Mello was up but it was not L he sought. No, in fact, he had not gone far: turning his back to the room as hands fell over the back of the nearest chair; tightening against smooth wood as he felt the first sting of hot tears cloud his vision. Not now. Goddamnit, not now.

But who was it for? What bothered him the most? Gott helfen mir! His grip was shaky. Blackened nails digging into the upholstery. That was the biggest problem here wasn’t it? Who was Mello truly mourning just then and now? Who did his heart twist for when his mind struggled so desperately to remain objective? That fucking title didn’t matter. It never truly fucking mattered once he realized what it meant. Recognition was one thing – recognition he had already attained but this is not what he’d wanted. Not like this.

His teeth grit painfully, light feathery lashes falling against his cheeks. Haben Sie Gnade auf seiner Seele… Head was bowed, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Damnit. Damnit! How could it have gotten to this? How could have L have done this – how could he have allowed himself to get so close – how had it whirled out of control – when had he started caring?! And there wasn’t a single thing to do about it, was there? Because it was unlikely that the death god would allow his rules to be broken like this. L had damned himself in making that deal, in saving Light’s life those many moons ago … only four months… and it was suffocating. Mello felt as if he were drowning beneath the onslaught.

Damned. Both of them. Geben ihm noch eine chance…

Kira was dead.

Isn’t that what they’d always strived for? Wasn’t that the initial goal and the reason he had abandoned Wammy’s House? To put him down, to beat him at his own game and to put an end to the plague that ransacked the world.

Kira was dead.

It did not seem comprehensible. Light was dead… L would soon follow – be it a month or a week down the line.

Mello’s eyes snapped open and he saw the world through a haze he tried so very hard to control. Kira was dead – two weeks earlier he’d been laughing into his ear at the mercy of fleeting touches—but L had put an end to it. Kira was dead and Mello’s mind seemed to so easily summon the sensation of those hands upon him, of strangely affectionate touches trailing over ridged scar tissue. He could recall the feel of his lips, the taste of his kiss, the way he had cried in his arms that first night in the new flat once the torment was over and the sex that powerful.

The mental images of L were equally tormenting – Mello’s childhood, trailing the detective around when no one else wood, L then so much taller, so much more imposing even only at his fifteen years of age. It felt like a world away. Mello remembered seeking him out, asking the questions no one dared to ask, demanding the attention and L always conceding, in his own way. Already Mello was thinking him gone. Oh god… already he was thinking the worst but what more was there to think? What more was there to consider when he knew – by god he knew! – that it would not last. L would see his task through the end and await that final breath.

And there wasn’t a goddamned thing Mello could do about it. Suddenly he felt so small – he felt overwhelmed just as he had two weeks prior, breaking down in L’s arms as if he were a child again. Hand tightened over the cross at his chest but the pain did nothing to ground him; the metal quickly warming against his palm and its edges far from severe. And just like Linda… Mello allowed himself to entertain the thought that yes, perhaps, this was truly but a nightmare. Oh God let it be so.

Matt and Linda had both looked to Mello when he rose, L did not. L did not seem to see anything that was right before him, and the only thing maintaining the detective’s composure was shock. It was shock that kept him sitting there holding the tea cup, shock that made him say: “Kira’s sentence has always been within my sole jurisdiction—it was death by lethal injection, he felt nothing.” It was shock that made him drop the cup after those words.

He blinked, staring down at the fractured shards of china scattered by his bare feet almost as though he had no idea how they got there. He toed one, watched the blood bead on white skin, and the doctor moved his foot. “I’ve got it, L,” he said sadly. There was no other comfort to offer—it was suddenly so utterly dark in that room.

“Thank you,” L said distantly, his proper manners in place because there was nothing else. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, getting up, “I’ll be in the music room.”

Matt bit his lip, watching the way L just turned to leave, like he was already a ghost—he had no sense of himself, no sense of reality, no sense of much at all except those random synapses that fired to make it seem as though he was still coherent.

“Doctor,” he said, and Gregory lifted his head. “Please have your staff—” L couldn’t finish the sentence, he’d forgotten the proper words.

“I know L, I will,” the doctor said quietly.

“Thank you,” the detective replied again—in Japanese. “There’s a plot at the edge of the eastern garden—a mausoleum—please let him rest there… he would have—” But he was already in the hall, and if he said anything after that, it was too distant to hear.

He crossed the vestibule to the music room, shuffling slowly to the middle of the floor, his gaze on the piano—he’d bought that for a reason, hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember now, but the floor seemed like a good place to settle at that moment, and L lay down—there in the middle of the floor—he lay there and did not get back up.

* * *

Mello didn’t know how long it as after L left—after the doctor made the call to his staff; Linda hadn’t moved, in fact she was crying and Mello assumed the tears were for L—for his grief, for his death, for the emotion that had settled like the pall it was.

Matt finally broke from the window to go to her, and she wrapped herself around him, but his eyes found Mello—and Mello…turned away.

He wasn’t sure when he got to the stairs, he didn’t really remember leaving the sitting room, but he was ascending them anyway, to the hall, toward the bedroom—he wanted to see. He needed to, because despite everything, it didn’t seem real; his mind already somersaulting over the tragedy, but not grasping at images clearly.

The medical staff was in the room already, and they were moving him to a stretcher. He was there on the bed—clothes bloodstained from earlier, but otherwise he was not. They’d cleaned him already, or L had. He wasn’t bound, hands folded peacefully over that narrow chest—so still—and his face, angelic in death as it was in sleep, eyes closed, lashes unmoving against pale cheeks—too pale, the color of death setting in over what was once so golden.

Mello stepped into the room. “Ein moment,” he whispered, not even aware he was speaking German. The message got across regardless, and the staff left for just that long—to give him a moment, to cross the space to the bed and stare down at Light’s quiet form—his beautiful face—and Mello noticed his bangs were stiff with tears. He’d known—Light had known what L was going to do—Why hadn’t he fought? Why hadn’t he screamed for help? Had L forced death upon him? Or had Kira accepted it?

The room was an ominous presence to Mello just then—the scene of the murder it was—the scene of judgment. And Light was dead now before him. Mello pressed fingers to his eyes and tried to block out the memory of Light’s body when they’d spooned together at night, the smell of his hair, the feel of his skin—whispers in the dark, lips brushing together, smiles and soft touches and fingers linking…

The blonde sunk to his knees, hands clasping, head bowed, the prayer falling from chapped lips “Gott erbarme sich seiner Seele…bitte…bitte.”

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long had passed, the seconds blurring into minutes without recollection. Fingers had tightened into the sheets, head bowed against his forearm but his lips still moved in a faint whisper, barely audible against the strained, oppressive silence. He tasted the saltiness of tears but that detail never once sunk in. Nothing other than this moment and this harsh reality.

A hand fell upon his shoulder, assuming it was one of the nurses, Mello hardly reacted. Not caring, simply not fucking caring.

“Mell…” Matt’s voice was quiet and sounding so far away even when he was right there. Mello felt him; the warm press of that familiar body curved over his, gently luring him away so that the medical staff, which truth be told did not want to interrupt him, could carry out their task.

Mello didn’t know what it was about the sound of his lover’s voice at that precise moment that robbed the strangled cry from his lips. Goddamnit. He told himself he would not do this. He told himself he would not! But there was no anger left and Matt gently pried him away as those green eyes flashed open to look upon that beautifully peaceful face once again. The expected ‘Amen’ was not even finished, as if he could not complete the simple word without crumbling. To his surprise, the redhead’s arms slid around his shoulders, supporting him as the true weight of grief set in. But through it, he could still think – albeit only through short spurts. “God.. what’s become of me..?” he whispered brokenly, leaning heavily against Matt’s supporting presence at his back.

“You care too much…” was the quiet response.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps that was just the simplest way of putting it.

* * *

It was late afternoon when the clouds inked over the sky and the rain started to fall. Gently at first, and L was standing on the veranda as it came down on him—watching the staff carry out the stretcher—Light’s body covered head-to-toe with a white sheet. It wasn’t like they’d had a coffin on hand, so they were going to inter him as he was in the mausoleum until L had a proper coffin imported. Mello had already prayed over the body, but Doctor Gregory thought it was wrong not to have something said, even if it was Kira they were burying.

He had a bible on hand—the irony wasn’t lost on anyone, but no one felt the need to point it out either. Linda had dressed appropriately, probably felt it was the least she could do. Upon seeing her, Matt donned a dark blazer over his usual fare, and Mello was already in black by default—not that he was essentially concerned about it. Formalities showed thought on Linda and Dr. Gregory’s behalf—but the situation had gone way beyond it, and Mello’s eyes were on L as he followed the stretcher several paces ahead of them.

He wasn’t moving like a zombie the way he had been earlier, but he wasn’t speaking, hadn’t come out of the music room until Dr. Gregory summoned him to observe the interment, which went from an interment to a funeral when Linda said she was going out with him—standing there in her suit, cut flowers in her hands.

It almost struck Mello that the formality wasn’t all for L’s benefit, that after all was said and done, Linda’s mind had retreated to Light as he was that morning—all platitudes and charm and high intellect despite his underhanded words. She’d already blotted out what happened after that—blamed it on the condition Light had been afflicted with for 6 years—the Kira affliction.

If Dr. Gregory pitied Light Yagami, it only showed in the grim expression he wore which spoke of wasted potential—wasted potential all around, because L was next to die, wasn’t he.

It seemed, standing there in the rain, the water soaking down his hair, plastering the white shirt to white skin, that L had done more than just accept his death was imminent—he was waiting for it, hoping for it—looking toward it to end what he was trying not to feel, standing there as the stretcher was wheeled into the mausoleum, moved to one of the empty crypts.

Mello’s eyes were on him, and L’s eyes were on Light—and Dr. Gregory chose that moment to open the book and read the words: “O God, who brought us to birth, and in whose arms we die, in our grief and shock contain and comfort us; embrace us with your love, give us hope in our confusion and grace to let go into new life; through Jesus Christ. Gracious God, surround us and all who mourn this day with your continuing compassion.
Do not let grief overwhelm your children, or turn them against you. When grief seems never-ending, take them one step at a time along your road of death and resurrection in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

It wasn’t a prayer for Kira.

It was a prayer for L.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon stretched onto evening with a relentless gloom in the air. The villa was, for the most part, quiet. Muted. Mello had returned to his study, not for the sake of taking up the work that had been abandoned earlier that morning during Linda’s troubled interruption, but for the sake of solace. He sat on the couch, back against the armrest, legs stretched out over its cushions, arms folded across his abdomen. His gaze however, remained on the windows that darkened with the passage of the time. Soon it was his blurry reflection he watched and in that instant could not help but recall the previous night – the reflection that had given away company. Company he’d craved so dearly for two weeks. Two weeks that seemed like a bloody eternity.

Mello frowned but of tears there were none. His grief drying them as it turned inward. Thoughtful rather than emotional. Looking away from the windows, he turned it toward the bottle of rum that sat on the floor beside him. Reaching down, he swept it upward to take a healthy serving. Glasses were overrated. Unnecessary. It warmed him on the way down but did nothing to drown the stubborn activity of his mind.

A knock on the door, Linda was peeking into the dimly lit study several hours later. The bottle was practically drained and yet clarity had hardly faded. “Dinner’s ready…” she told him quietly.

“Not hungry.” A careless response. A practiced one.

She sighed as if having expected it and allowed herself in, saying nothing until she reached the couch and crossing her arms leaned over the back of it, looking down at him. “Are you going to be all right?”

Mello chuckled and the bitterness with which it was imbued was not lost on her. “Not much of a choice is there?” he asked darkly.

No, she supposed not but did not answer. Much to his surprise, she backed away but rather than empty from the study, came around to sit on the edge of the couch beside him. “I’m sorry…” she murmured and Mello’s eyes shot up to her. That look hardened, warning her against such behavior. He’d had enough of it. It was easier to let the emotion sink back into the deepest reaches of his mind and let reality pass him by. “Look at me however you want, but I am sorry, Mello…” For his loss, which ever way one cared to look at it, for the spot it put him in. She knew he was closest to L. She knew even if she did not understand it, that he had somehow managed to get close to Light.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” he muttered, looking stubbornly away from her and taking the opportunity to drain some more of the rum. It would not last much longer at this rate. The best he could hope for was that it would lull him to a fuzzy, dreamless sleep. It would be a blessing end to the day.

“No… perhaps not.” She exhaled and with a brush of fingers against his shoulder, pushed herself up to leave.

“Linda..?”

“Mm?” she paused, half turning to look over her shoulder at him.

“Thank you.”

She mustered a sad smile. “I’ll have your dinner brought in.” And when he did not say anything, she retreated, remaining outside just a short while longer, hands on the knob behind her as she released the strength summoned for his sake. It was only getting harder.

* * *

L had taken up a permanent residence in the music room—but had yet to touch an instrument. He’d spent much of the time on the floor staring at the ceiling, and Linda brought him food as well—a tray heaping with sweets and warmed sugar-tea—but he had barely even acknowledged it. Of course it disturbed her beyond measure to see him laying that way, so utterly wrecked and despondent, almost waiting for the shinigami to descend and end it quickly—but there was nothing from the gods of the death world—not a peep, not a cameo, not even an apple core.

By midnight, the storm had blown in fully from the coast, trees caught in a violent wind, whipping around against the landscape, backlit by vibrant flashes of lightening over the vineyards.

Everyone had gone to bed, Mello most likely had fallen asleep in the study—L had moved from the floor and was now standing against the veranda doors, head pressed to the glass, feeling the rain pound in stunning waves of vibration from outside. It seemed like ages since he had a coherent thought, his gaze watching the water flood between the bricks of the outside patio, the notion that stone looked pretty when it was wet, floating somewhere in his mind, often interrupted by the wonder where everything went when it was in shadow—and how stupid it was to even think that anyway? Was shadow like Nothing? Was there a time when Nothing was chased away by dawn? Was it possible to know you were Nothing and could something truly stop existing altogether? Physics said energy couldn’t be destroyed.

L randomly bumped his head against the glass, trying to will sane thoughts to focus, but it had been awhile since he even understood anything sane—instead his gaze fixed on his reflection in the glass, the dim lights of the room making it impossible to see outside save for every flash of lightening that seemed to set the world on fire.

L’s fingers swirled on the glass, toying with their reflective counterpart the way Noriko often did whenever she caught the gaze of her own reflection. It was distantly fascinating to see the mirror image move and taunt the way it was taunted, and L soon found himself scrawling kanji into the individual panes he could reach. Same character over and over—didn’t take a genius to know which one.

He drew it for the tenth time with the tip of an index finger and at last pressed his palm to it, as though to hold it there, keep it safe—he thought he felt a warmth on the glass press back from the other side, and the sensation was so odd that L lifted his head the exact moment the lightening lit the world aflame—and his reflection, changed something drastic.

He was soaked on the other side of the door—long hair now hung past his shoulders, plastered to a pale and forlorn face—so familiar and distinctly beautiful and utterly… wrecked with what seemed like misery and anxiety and every last emotion L had heard in his voice before he’d killed him.

Spirit? Devil? Hallucination? It didn’t matter, the shock of the sudden figure out there, mirroring L’s pose at the door sent the detective reeling back with a whole new brand of horror. Actually, for 2.5 seconds L was terrified—terrified that what he was suddenly looking at was real, and terrified that it wasn’t—that in the shadows beyond the lightening, it had disappeared back to Nothing, and he was now very much—and deservedly so—haunted…

Until the fist banged on the door from outside, and the voice yelled at him over the weather: “L, goddamnit, open the fucking door!!”

Oh….oh….Oh fuck.