Sweet Little Lies

Nightmare

Light was pacing his bedroom floor. He threw pillows, dug nails into his scalp and yelled through the grit of his teeth.

It was nearing midnight. The hour of heedlessness was fast approaching. Fast approaching because with every second, moderation was fleeting. Moderation flew past the Yagami boy's face, flurrying strands of brown hair in the aftermath of a speeding breeze. Moderation was gone. Heedlessness was here as two counting hands became one, within the circle of glass ticking on his nightstand.

Light was pacing, back and forth over the threshold between his bedroom and the hallway. Over and over. Into a room flooded with a warm lamp-lit glow. An honest agreeable presence urging thoughts to simmer and be silenced. Then, into a hall of shadow. Darkness that only conjured one's imagination upon its surface. Night was a mirror to a man's most vivid, disturbing thoughts. This man in particular, had awoken from a dream; a 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆. One that, hadn't greeted him in slumber in so long. Blood, dead bodies, a helpless man at Light's feet, asking why he couldn't be saved. Waking up in a sweat, Light Yagami craved a refreshing breath of wind to alleviate him of his skin's fever. A similar gust to that of which whistled on the rooftop, as Light had recounted this nightmare to his friend...his enemy. Such a development was so untimely. A young man was already troubled regarding a sickening heedlessness, and a nightmare, fundamentally quelled by the coincidence of L's presence beside him, was not helping. The 𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉 was there. Under his skin. Something was begging deep inside, regardless of logic, or reason, or soundness of mind. Light 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔. '𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔' was not the detective. '𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔' was a body; pleasure. It was absent from L, absent from the mind that ruled it. Maybe if Light did this. Maybe if he sought out desire, and sensation, it would disappoint him. It would disgust him—as hypothesised. He would feel his enemy intimately then it would disgust him and Light would itch for it no longer.

Light was pacing, in the darkness. Light paced in the darkness before the door. A door to the outside. The door to the hallway preceding another door to another hallway so on and so forth, again and again and again until it ushered eyes to the door separating Light from gripping hands of urgency. Hands that would pull him into the fire. Within a room where bumps and blisters appeared beneath the paint on its walls. Where large windows became fogged. Where bedsheets burned. All because of heated passion; the friction of bodies that rekindled the embers of a dying fire...into an 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏.

Light was pacing, before the click of a closing door. It beckoned a coolness in the air and he tightened the belt on his robe. Outside the shelter of his room. The bittersweet shelter that constricted Kira from reaching his glory's potential, but in this moment, was a barrier. A barrier separating Light from a dangerous decision. But also, from an intriguing one.

Light was pacing, under the unflattering, overhead lights of an elevator. He looked in it's mirror and adjusted his hair. He pivoted on his heel and paced again. And again. And again. Thinking was a Light Yagami pastime. Not only that it was a necessity. So of course, he thought now. What would he do? Would he simply be stood at L's door, pathetically asking for him? Pathetically 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 what he'd so rudely been denied that morning? How dare L. How dare L deny him. How dare he mock him. Rebuff him. Brush Light off as though his reciprocation was trivial. Light would have his way now. He always had his way. Additionally he possessed 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔, of getting his way. L would be convinced, and it wouldn't take much. Light had his ways. His 𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒅𝒔. Eyes. Brown eyes. Sultry eyes. Brown eyes that lingered carefully but not too long, for when they were gone, just for a moment then they would be missed. Hands. Soft hands. Perfect hands that would caress, tap fingers; busy themselves in motions atop various objects that could easily be replaced by L's skin. The detective would stare, imagine his skin underneath the swirling finger over a cup's rim and Light would imagine it too. Pale skin. Pale, shuddering skin. Delicate as a moonlight ray, as Light Yagami reached his hand to dance within its spectral gleam. Light paced and envisaged his reflection in dark eyes. Light paced and envisaged a pale lip between his teeth. The shadow over his body cast by another's body above him. Light paced. Faster. Quicker. Quicker he paced. Faster and 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆? Light paced and metal creaked under his feet. The pictures were back. Light Yagami hadn't even closed his eyes and the pictures were back. He paced. He paced. Over and over. He paced he—