the LxB dynamic i always enjoy fixating on is like. beyond is obsessed with L, obviously, there is an entire book about this. but L imo is also a person with some deep insecurities and a certain childish desperation to be loved. so like how could he not be hungry for this unconditional adoration beyond has for him. how could he not allow himself to drown in it. u know. it’s the love he needs and wants in the most poisonous possible form.
Imagine a scenario in which L brings B onto the Kira case without telling the Task Force that he's also a serial killer. They just pretend B is an old associate that worked with him on the Los Angeles case.
Later, they simply assume B must also be L's ex-boyfriend, because, according to Matsuda "They act exactly like those petty exes from TV Dramas." Somehow, no one can find in themselves to protest the notion.
And Matsuda is not even all that wrong.
"Ah, so you have the time to show up in person for this Kira gal, but when I try to contact you-"
"Bryan, I genuinely couldn't care less about your little hate crush on me. I have a megalomaniac to catch."
///
"Pfff. Kira this. Kira that. You guys should have seen the Los Angeles case instead."
"Please, let's concentrate on the actually challenging case, Bryan."
"Jesus, and you accuse me of hate crushes. Do you have something to confess, Ryuuzaki?"
"Well, maybe if Los Angeles had been more interesting-"
We have had a couple anons asking for this now-deleted fic and were previously only able to provide chapters in other languages, however the-real-death-note-victim was kind enough to provide links to an english version up to chapter 5!
Imagine you are B, one of the Great Detective L's successors, and you have made it your goal to be L's one unsolvable case. You even try to set yourself on fire to avoid capture, but allas...
And here comes this random a*s Japanese guy, who maybe didn't even know of L's existence until the detective tricked him on live TV. Yet he managed to not only get L extremely interested in his case, but drew him out of total anonymity and killed him, leaving the case officially unsolved by Lawliet himself. Oh, and he also might have killed YOU.
Boy, if souls could meet in Mu and B would know all of these details, their interactions would sure be something.
Sweet Affectionate Moments Meme13. A Sorry Kiss26.Tending an injury
“I didn’t mean to startle you, Beyond.”
L sighed, watching the mess that was his boyfriend fret over his the cut on his tongue. It was apparently surprising to him how much it could bleed. The constant wetness of his saliva did not give it a chance to clot, so the diluted red liquid made it’s way on to paper towels and spat in to sink. How attractive. what a lucky man L Lawliet was. “I warned you about licking your jam off knives. I told you before it was not only unsanitary but idiotic and hazardous but still you persist in doing so. You would do well to listen to me.”
“Shuddup!” Beyond’s words were slightly distorted due to the blood filling his mouth and the slight swelling of his tongue. “I woddn’t have cut myself if you hadn’t of jumped out at me! It is your fault.”
“I walked in to my kitchen, Beyond. Something many people do multiple times a day. How was I supposed to know that you would be at the other side of the door licking a knife? Something I have told you not to do many of times.” Another sigh left him as he walked over to the refrigerator. “You are making a mess. Ice cubes help, as does honey. Also not being an idiot.
“I said shuddup!” A brief pout formed on his lips before they parted to spit out more blood. “You could at least stop being mean to me while I am in pain…”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.” L straightened and approached Beyond with a bag of ice. “Open up and suck on this.”
“How I long to hear those words but in different circumstances…” Anything else he could have said was quickly silenced by an ice cube being shoved in his mouth, the coldness stinging the cut ever so slightly. L knew a lot of things so he trusted him that this would help.
“I am sorry.” L kissed his boyfriend’s nose, his hand rubbing the back of his head slightly. “For startling you and being mean. I’m sorry. Although you could not like our knives I could be less of an ass. So I apologise.” It was accepted in silence, only punctuated with the occasional slurps from Beyond’s ice cube. Deciding to put off getting his cake, L sat at the table and watched over the other, trying to be a little bit more supportive.
“Well, my tongue is numb now but I suppose that is better.” Beyond swallowed the cube once it was too small to be effective. “What’s next then? Honey?” He stood and approached L before he could confirm it and gave him a deep kiss. “You’re all the honey I need.”
L blinked in surprise before his expression distorted to displeasure. “You taste foul and that numbness is unpleasant.” Eyes were only rolled at him before he was bombarded with more kisses on his face, his arms swatting the cold lips away. “Cut it out!”
“I thought you were sorry? Now give me the honey!”
“I had a dream that we lived in the old house together. You tended the garden and I washed the windows. The birdsong was louder than anything you said to me, but I knew the words you were saying as if I was saying them myself. My lips formed the shapes, and I couldn’t see any of the birds, but I could hear them. All of the children were gone.”
B is blindfolded, burnt, and destined for the gallows. L has lived beside his hospital bed for the past two weeks because there is nowhere more still, but for the errant nurse bustling in to check his vitals and offer watered down coffee, which L accepts in excess, until he is sick, sick like the room is sick, the whole building is sick, full of ghosts and machinery, and the days bleed into the nights until everything is the same shade of monochromic grey. The doctors talk to him like they aren’t hearing their own words, and the phone rings, oh, the phone rings, demanding him, his services, his mind—think for us, we’ll make you rich—but B just never wakes, until right then, at just the final moment that it is bearable for him not to, and when he speaks about his dream, in a mottled voice, the sort that you’d expect out of a burn victim, L hangs up on the prime minister of Belize.
“Your most treasured fantasy,” he says, dropping his cell phone carelessly onto the side table, “is to get me alone.”
B smiles. Half of his mouth is covered by white bandages, white like the light in here, L’s skin, B’s skin, L’s skin is B’s skin, or maybe the other way around, taking into account who owns who. “You’re always alone. You’re only ever with me. You don’t exist outside of this moment. I made you up as a child and I make you up now.”
L stands. “You couldn’t have given me broader shoulders, in that case? Don’t answer that. I’m going to get you water.”
He stumbles around the room, walks back to the bed, knows there isn’t a sink in here but doesn’t want anyone to notice that B is awake, alive, alert and ready for sentencing. L wants to remain in the interim for as long as possible. He wants to flirt with destroying him, but the destruction itself is less appealing.
He wants to take B’s bandages off with his own hands and look him in his disfigured eyes and tell him, Yes, I’ve won, I was always going to win, be still, be still, rabid thing. Yes, I’ll take you back to the old house, and all the children will be gone. Fantasy is so fickle. The way it feels to see him lying there all in plaster, a pharaoh dressed for the burial, stirs an untouched fearful lonely thing inside of L, and he can’t stop touching it, and pretty soon if he doesn’t stop he’s going to rub it away.
He slops some of the water out of the cup onto the clean linoleum floor in his haste to get back to B. He is just as L had left him. He presses the rim of the cup to B’s lips and pours, too fast, almost chokes him, but B doesn’t stop drinking it.
L almost touches his hair, but doesn’t. B must feel the attempt in his periphery, because he says, “So, you did miss me, after all.”
“Crispy and half-dead in a hospital bed is no time to get cocky, B.”
“No time like the present. There’s been too much strife in this installment. I want to go back to your small hands in the cellar. Either let me die and go back there, or make it worth my while to stick around.”
L smiles. He has never missed anyone in his life and he will never let himself, but close enough, close enough and he can feel B’s breath and B can feel his.
“I couldn’t possibly fuck you in this state. You’d break apart.”
B surely cannot move his body without immense pain, but he shrugs anyway. “Ever the romantic. You’d like to hold the pieces in your hands. Porcelain shatters so well, you remember, scrambling around cleaning up the pieces of the vase before Roger got upstairs. Such a wicked boy you were.”
“You were wicked. I was precocious.”
“Climb on top of me,” B demands, with laughing severity, “and I’ll die underneath you.”
