Chapter 1: Sugar Crashing
Pairing: L Lawliet x f!reader
WARNING: SWEARING AND FLUFF
The rainy English sky outside the windows of Wammy’s House was always a miserable, bruised purple. Inside, the grand library smelled of old paper, floor wax, and the distinct, cloying scent of pure refined sugar.
You sat cross-legged on the plush Persian rug, meticulously sorting a pile of stolen sugar packets by color. Across from you sat L.
He wasn't "L" yet. He was just a pale, oddly shaped boy with shadows under his eyes that looked like someone had smeared charcoal under them with a rough thumb. He was currently balancing a sugar cube on his knee, his chin resting flat against his upraised shins as he stared at you with wide, unblinking irises.
"You're doing it wrong," he mumbled, his voice already possessing that characteristic scratchy monotone. "The blue packets have a higher artificial sweetener content. They should be categorized by chemical weight, not by the pigment of the paper."
"Shut up," you said, though there was zero heat in it. You pushed a bright pink packet toward him. "Color coding is prettier. If it’s pretty, it tastes better. It's a scientific fact."
L blinked slowly, reached out with two fingers, pinched the pink packet, and brought it straight to his mouth. He bit the corner off, threw his head back, and poured the raw crystals directly onto his tongue. He chewed thoughtfully, his expression completely blank, before letting out a soft hum.
"Inconclusive," he pronounced. "However, because you insist on hoarding the strawberry-flavored candies from the kitchen pantry, and because your teeth are going to rot before we turn twelve, I have decided your designation is no longer your given initial."
You paused, a yellow packet hovering in your hand. "Oh yeah? What is it then?"
"Gumdrop," he said flatly.
You blinked. "That's stupid."
"It is highly accurate," L retorted, shifting his weight to stack three sugar cubes on top of his big toe with terrifying precision. "You are small, excessively sweet, sticky when you spill juice on yourself, and generally bad for my dental health. Therefore: Gumdrop."
A bubbly laugh burst from your chest, bright and loud enough to echo in the damp, quiet corners of the massive library. L didn't smile—he rarely did—but the slight tension in his shoulders relaxed, his toes curling slightly to keep the sugar tower from collapsing.
That was your routine. You were the bright, chaotic sun to his cold, analytical moon. While the other kids at Wammy’s House found L creepy, intimidating, or entirely unapproachable, you just saw a boy who forgot to blink and needed someone to make sure he didn't accidentally starve while calculating the probability of a chess match. You brought the noise; he brought the quiet. You brought the energy; he consumed the sugar.
But the peace at Wammy's House never lasted for the kids who didn't fit the rigid mold of a genius successor.
The day it broke was just as gray as any other. You had been dragged out of the playroom by Watari, his face grave and kind, leaving L sitting alone on a stack of encyclopedias. A wealthy couple from London—diplomats with perfectly pressed suits, fake, blinding smiles, and a desire for a "bright, lively child" to fill their empty estate—had signed the papers.
You didn't understand the finality of it until your small suitcase was packed and sitting by the front heavy oak doors.
"I don't want to go," you whispered, tears prickling the corners of your eyes, your usual bubbly demeanor completely evaporating into a cold, heavy dread. "Watari, please. I don't want to leave."
"It is a good home, child," Watari said softly, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. "They can give you a normal life. A life away from... all of this."
You wrenched yourself away, sprinting back down the grand hallway, your sneakers squeaking violently against the polished hardwood. You took the stairs two at a time, bursting into the library.
L hadn't moved. He was sitting in the exact same spot, his knees pulled to his chest, staring at the empty space on the rug where your sugar packets used to be.
"L!" you sobbed, running over and dropping to your knees in front of him.
He didn't look up immediately. When he did, his dark eyes were completely unreadable, a wall of pure, clinical detachment pulled down over his face.
"Your adoption papers have been finalized," L said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "Statistically, children who leave Wammy's House have a eighty-four percent chance of adjusting better to normal society than those who stay."
"I don't care about your stupid percentages!" you yelled, a heavy, suffocating sob ripping from your throat. You grabbed his oversized white shirt, wrinkling the fabric in your fists. "Are you really just going to let them take me? Say something! Tell them I need to stay!"
L looked down at your hands clutching his shirt. For a fraction of a second, his fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach out. But he didn't. He stayed perfectly still, a marble statue of a child.
"It is illogical to fight a binding legal contract," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, sounding incredibly small. "You are going to a wealthy family. You will have access to better sweets."
"You're a jerk," you wept, dropping your hands. The anger flared hot and sharp in your chest, a desperate defense mechanism against the pain of being abandoned by your best friend. "You're a heartless, robotic, absolute piece of shit, L!"
The heavy swear word—one you had smuggled from listening to the older boys in the courtyard—cut through the quiet library like a knife.
L flinched. It was a tiny movement, just a slight widening of his eyes, but to you, it felt like an earthquake. He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"Goodbye, Gumdrop," he whispered.
"Don't call me that," you choked out, standing up and wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. "Don't ever call me that again."
You turned on your heel and ran. You ran down the stairs, out the front doors, and straight into the back of a sleek, black luxury car. You didn't look back at the second-story window, where a pale boy with messy black hair pressed his forehead against the cold glass, watching the taillights disappear into the English rain.
I forgot to mention, he's a kid here, there are five chapters. The second chapter will come later this week or the next week sorry guys!!
Taglist!!!:
@edininwinter
