Sweet Little Lies

Sleep Deprivation

Light fluttered his eyes awake. He was in a good mood this morning...what was the time? 𝑭𝒊𝒗𝒆? He hadn't slept long at all...
The boy felt the warm arm draped over his stomach, L had wrapped it around him unknowingly in his sleep. Light didn't know how long it had been there, so he didn't move it now, he wanted some peaceful hours before the detective became talkative. L's newly found sleep cycle was a blessing and a curse.

Light wanted to twiddle with the strewn about dark strands, entangled by the movement of dreams. He wanted to tighten his legs around the back of the detective's knees and limit the particles of air that still floated between them. If only Light could create circles of affection with fingers that swirled shapes over each notch in the detective's spine. But he didn't want to wake him from the precious rest his body needed. They weren't required to get up for a while yet, why had Light woken up so early? Maybe it was his subconscious, urging the boy gently from his slumber so he could spend time with half of L's dreaming body laying on top of him ungracefully. Because although his hairs were in disarray, they were somehow perfectly where they should be. Each strand planting itself in its rightful place to frame the peaceful dormancy in the detective's features. It's as if the dreams of Light's deep-seated desires, were so intense, they'd manifested themselves into an artist. Someone who'd snuck into their room to arrange L's oblivious body into its current position - one that had every attribute in perfect accordance with Light's wishes. Because it looked too faultless to be circumstantial.

Famous, old art pieces were so delicate, and meticulously preserved, to lay a hand on history didn't seem justifiable - with the anxieties of fragile canvas unraveling at your fingertips. It seemed costly, but wasn't it 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒕? To feel the texture of raised acrylic that dragged in colours of inconsistent thickness between bristles of a paintbrush, under your palms? To taste the vision that mingled with your tainting fingerprints, but leaving your unique mark on something so important. Something where only other important hands had been, like Picasso, Van Gough or Da Vinci. So many influential achievements were hidden behind glass, because many people's hands were disgusting, riddled with misdeed, too rough to appropriately appreciate the exquisiteness of originality. Maybe why Light hesitated to bare it to them? Was L also worth the risk of breakage? Just to experience it, with disastrous consequence, would be better than never experiencing it at all. Because the detective was also a composition hidden behind windows of glass; untouched. His exterior was perfectly preserved - the reason for the complete absence of evident tarnish from the wears of life on his exterior. But Light didn't have dirty hands, he was the one who got to touch such a rarity. Right now however, the analysis of eyes was satisfactory, because L looked too at peace to be disturbed, not even by the stimulation of a gentle touch. And he was a light sleeper too. The stillness of Light's body so as to not interrupt whatever magical land L currently inhabited, made certain limbs numb. But it didn't matter.

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕?

Light tried not to laugh at his imaginings. Because mental pictures displayed swamps of thick treacle, syrup sinking sand, rivers of chocolate and mountains of ice cream scoops covered in the snowfall of cake crumbs atop trees in abundance of strawberries. L would love this. But the vibrations resulting from suppressed sniggering in the boy's throat would no doubt stir the detective from such a reality. Light was embarrassed by his hope to star in L's infrequently occurring slumberland stories. Since, the detective was all the young man ever saw when he exited the domain of consciousness. To the extent that, his dreams blended with his mornings so much, Light sometimes couldn't tell the difference. Because L was always at the end of his eyes' line of sight nonetheless, and their quarters was all the boy saw, so that's the only location he dreamed. It all looked so 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒓 regarding the fact. Therefore, maybe 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 was also a dream? Maybe why L was sleeping, when he 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 be observing his Kira suspect. Was the detective letting his guard down? It made Light smile. Because this was a glimmer of promise, that the boy would no longer be Kira in his eyes one day...