"A GUILTY CONSCIENCE NEEDS TO CONFESS

... A work of art is a confession." -- Albert Camus

[xxcats-eyesxx]

Ezgi Polat

[mastertypodyas]

[guardians-of-the-food]

Cucumber Soba Noodle Bowl

[flavourandfull]

[fullcravings]

Lemon Raspberry Stuffed Pound Cake

[flavourandfull]

[flavourandfull]

[flavourandfull]

[provenfalse]

To this he compels himself to listen carefully, as Light’s prone to leave glinting hints of useful information amongst a sandstorm of useless filler. Calls his attention even more because this is personal, as their conversations tend to get only for darker purposes; guilt, persuasion or sex.

Light isn’t trying to guilt him, and lest the kitchen tile become littered with ceramic and liquid all over again, this isn’t a hateful coaxing towards sex. 

It’s not entirely persuasive either.

I’m selfish?

You hypocritical little shit.

Yet he stays quiet, letting the younger of the two list off details like he’s reading a checklist before making a sale which he hopes to gain the only profit.

It’s insulting.

“Is this a business arrangement?” L finally scoffs, in the way only he can – with a huff through his nose, a sardonic lift to his lips, but his tone still smooth. He’s not so childish as to give away his own indignance. “Where is the contract I’m expected to sign? Surely you’ve printed one out by now.”

That their relationship will always be different from this point forward is fair. That L will continue his investigative duties is accurate as well. But the tone of this, the judgmental air Light’s exuding about something he’s taking mutual part in, is enough for L to leave him to it, alone.

But he stays calm.

Sips his coffee and cracks two knuckles of his free hand.

Says, after a swallow, and while only now leveling Light in a narrowed glare, “You really are terrible at this.”

[thismonsterlies]

Ah, there it is. The quiet disagreement in between heavy breaths and cracking knuckles, the irritation that brews and is soothed from the brew in his cup — it’s all so fun to watch. Even more fun is the way L chooses to respond, tone thick with frustration. 

“To the contrary, I think I’m quite good at this.” 

Never faltering, his stare remains glued to those waning irises, watching as those dark eyes begin to bring his reflection into view. Indeed, the monster he sees in L is no different than the monster he is himself. It’s an inconvenient truth, but something he’ll have to grow comfortable with.

“I confess, I’m unable to tease apart my desire to relish what we have or smother you in it. Two equally intense passions battle for dominance — you could say it’s love and hate — and unless I’m programmed to act otherwise some uncontrollable force may take over. Maybe you’ve picked up on it, but I’m not quite myself in moments like last night. This is why we need to talk:

“The only contract that we’ll need to discuss is whether or not you select a safe word, in the event that death knocks on your door and you’re not ready for her.” He takes another sip, watching carefully for any twitch of a reaction. He doesn’t expect one, and so continues on.

“I’d hate to see you go, I don’t know what I’d do without you, L. I think I would go insane.” 

[provenfalse]

He supposes he’s earned that jab, considering his own comment regarding appearances prior. Thus he lets it pass, busying himself instead with an irritating flapping at his wrists. Two buttons are meant to cuff more tightly, and he wonders how anyone bears the restriction around such a flexible limb and a strong pulse. Leaves the fastenings alone, then, because he’d rather deal with the sporadic scrape of fabric than a vice-like bind.

Eyes return to Light – or, shift to the coffee maker and then back again – when says something about normal. Which might not be meant as a compliment, but L takes it as such; at times, he goes to great lengths to seem abnormal. Catches people off-guard if he’s the ‘weird’ one, lets him get a glimpse of how they react to the less than ordinary.

Something he hasn’t told Light out loud, but he’d be surprised if this hasn’t already been figured out to some extent or another.

Finely divided attention lets him know that there’s enough coffee to start with, so he steps from the counter to the collection of mugs in the corner. Pours what he can, stirring sugar (and then more sugar) in before turning to face Light properly, taking a sip before he replies.

“Oh?” One sip is invigorating, warm and sweet and giving him a much-needed jumpstart. “Do tell.”

He assumes Light is trying to rattle him with this mention of a ‘ mistake. ‘

He sincerely hopes he’s right.

[thismonsterlies]

Wide eyes follow L across the kitchen with incredible interest, quite entranced by that strip of color normally hidden beside enlarged pupils. If he could hold him under a microscope, he thinks he’d inspect those irises for hours. Eyes as windows to the soul work to expose true colors — veiled by a drug L aggressively consumes, as drugs typically do. 

He knows the pot of coffee has more sex appeal to L than he can offer now, and so he drinks these final seconds in of narrow pupils before they inevitably diminish that color again. He thinks L might take his verbal bait, using it as a means to test these emotional waters. It’s not a conversation that’s easy for him to have, despite how plainly he talks about it.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be able to look at each other the same. If our relationship was tense before, it only runs the risk of being more tense going forward. You’re selfish.”

The kettle cries, prompting him to turn off the gas and pour boiling water into his mug. 

“I see a lot of people. You’re a detective — also known as a professional stalker. You’ve tracked me before. There was little trust between us then. Do you think it’ll only get better given where we are right now? Of course not. Yet knowing this, you won’t do anything about it. Aren’t I right?”

Although much too hot, he raising the mug to his lips and braves a sip. The pain is somewhat refreshing, awakening, washing his mouth of the taste of aged semen.

“I think we’ll only fight more. Not what I’d call a peaceful household. Domestic violence may be a frequent occurrence. But the neighbors can’t know.” Over the rim of his mug, he holds his stare while taking yet another scalding sip. 

Goddamn.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” 

[provenfalse]

Suffering is the long wait between each drip, dark eyes watching, forlorn, to judge right when there’s enough coffee for a single cup. Still, he’s paying attention, ignoring Light’s comment about the shirt and court because it’s still fully unbuttoned, hasn’t been ironed yet and looks strange on him (he can tell without the help of a mirror simply for how strange it feels).

“Something I’ve already deduced,” he does reply to the admission of avoidance. “Am I so frightening that you felt it necessary to stay away from your own home all this time?”

Not the point and they know it, and he’s still so tired, and desperate for coffee – but he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t fun.

“Might I remind you, if I may – you did say you wanted to talk about this in the morning.”

A discussion that might be going more smoothly if he dropped the condescension, but he reasons it’s too early for that kind of self-awareness.

[thismonsterlies]

“Terrifying,” he says with a glance over his shoulder and through his bangs, bending just enough to lock with much darker eyes. They linger, meandering from pitch black to eggshell white, and the charcoal smudges in between.

“Especially now, you look a mess,” he ends with a smirk, light finding his eyes and filling him with a bit more energy. Spinning in place, he leans back against the counter, hands behind him as he continues to quietly observe the other. The low hang of L’s jeans, while new, pales in comparison to other features. Not the sculpt of his torso, either, and how muscles shift with his stance, but the rings of color around L’s pupils.

“So, this is what you look like when you’re normal like the rest of us?” the smile doesn’t fall from his face, unable to hide it as this sight seems like such a rarity. In all the mess, there’s something handsome and powerful. It takes a certain personality to stand so unashamed, uncaring, and playful despite it all. The sort of comfort some say is exhibited in a person in love.

“So let’s talk.” Arms cross, and without skipping a beat, he begins, “I think this has all been a big mistake.”

[provenfalse]

Upon Light’s exit, he sprawls across the bed, turning his face once more towards Lilian, but moreso to the door. He listens: the click of an opening, what he thinks is a gruff sigh, and finally a slam. At this he can’t help but smile, even when the kitten starts, timid with ears perked high.

“Shall we go?” he asks her. “Or should we…”

It’s so comfortable here, particularly now that he’s stretched out. Of course the sheets are of a high thread count, pillows perfectly plump without causing a crick in the neck. He could stay here, weightless on a cloud.

Or he could reap his rewards.

Lilian’s ahead of him, now off the bed and scampering out of the room. Whether due to lack of caffeine or because he’d like to drag this out, L’s slow to cross the hallway into the laundry room where he has a stack of but a few pairs of jeans. Pulls one on, grabbing a shirt that’s hanging above – not his, it turns out, all full of buttons that he doesn’t care to fasten. But it’s long-sleeved and serves its purpose to warm his arms, even if the collar lends an annoying chafe around his throat.

Now he ambles into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and with a stilted gait, but alight with a pleasant demeanor.

“No shower, no cologne, no morning shave… My, you would have been a mess at the office today, wouldn’t you?” With hopeful eyes he glances towards the coffee maker, just beginning to brew.

Damn.

Leans his hip against the counter to wait, for if he seats himself there may be no getting back up.

“I borrowed this,” he says as an aside, lifting one arm from where it’s been hanging at his hip. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Meaning: I don’t care if you do.

“So then, no work today after all?”

[thismonsterlies]

He’s not happy about this in the slightest. In addition to L’s list of things Light routinely does in the morning, there’s wake up with an inspiration to cook something divine. But he lacks the interest, anything probably tasting like rocks in his mouth should he consume it. Coffee is perhaps a bad idea, with how on edge he awoke and how quickly he crashed. 

Tea, then.

“You’ll just have to suffer,” he throws back, eyes skipping tile to tile until they find familiar toes, familiar jeans, a familiar shirt — but not on L. 

“I’m surprised you’d put something like that on. Have you been summoned to court?” 

Laughing, beside himself, it makes the lift from the seat to the pantry painless, forgetting how much better it felt to be in bed. Without realizing it, he prepares a cup of tea and fills a kettle, drumming fingertips on the counter with nothing left to do. 

“No work. Unlike you, I get my weekends off.” Wouldn’t seem like it in recent history, though. “And before you comment — yes, I avoided you. Moving on...” The kettle can’t sing any sooner.

[provenfalse]

Caffeine would be nice right about now, his eyes cracking open once more as the bed jolts with Light’s scrambling. The most unfortunate part of getting a full night’s rest, he’s discovering, is that there’s no pot of coffee already prepared (already half-gone, but prepared) at this time of morning.

“Is it?” His voice is all ho-hum, as if he might know the answer but prefers not to say. Truthfully, he’s simply still waking, not as quick as Light to shake himself free of the woozy heaviness of his head, eyelids, limbs. 

With a scritch at Lilian’s ears, he rolls onto his other side, doing his best to prop himself on an elbow as he watches Light from behind. (Keenly aware he’s still naked when the chilled air is free to waft along his collarbone as the comforter slips down his torso.)

“I can’t seem to recall – have you ever been late to work before, Light?” Still in a singsong, blatant in all its teasing, because they’re both well aware he hasn’t.

[thismonsterlies]

Undershirt, pressed shirt, slacks, and argyle socks slip over his body and shut out the cold air from a room resting beneath a lonely moon. How alert he is now is a jarring distance from the comfort he was in. The faint yet distinct aroma of sugar and salt from a body too warm — his body — has now disappeared, and already manifested in a withdrawal beckoning Light for more.

“I think you know the answer to that, L —” One... two, three, four, five. Five workdays in a week, but what is a workweek when you’ve been avoiding home for the past two weeks? 

Is today street cleaning day?

Hair disheveled and shirt undone, he races from the bedroom and to the door of their home, throwing it open to peer into the street without an ounce of shame.

He can’t see it, but hears a fleet of machines down the street. Down, far down, and nothing but clean tar as evidence of its visit this morning.

The door slams, his blazer falls, and he slumps in a seat at the kitchen table after flicking the coffee maker on.

“I hate you.” 

[provenfalse]

Morning gifts him with a kitten curled next to his face (not new) and a lean arm draped over his frame (very new). Warmer than when he drifted off, because Light’s much closer at his back. He almost regrets opening his eyes, fearful that the more wakeful he becomes, the less real this scene will be. 

 But it’s very real, decorated with a blueish glow from the window. The sun’s about ready to rise, slow in its decision much like L himself. He thinks of Light, unstirred behind him. Doesn’t recall him setting an alarm. 

“You’re going to be late,” he says, quiet, along a lazy breath and a flex of his wrist before his eyes close again. Unsure if he was loud enough to hear, uncaring if he wasn’t, and unwilling to wake Light further if he’s still asleep.

[thismonsterlies]

Far away, there’s thunder. Low, grumbling, indicative of a storm that’s past or one yet to come. Light wishes it to be the latter — there’s something so inspiring about a gentle rain. Odd, but it paints a scene of familiar settings: a rooftop, a man standing tall and soaked, a bell he cannot hear — a moment so distant in his memory, it isn’t there.

“Hm? Hm.” Occurs to him that there’s no thunder at all, and it’s the matter-of-fact drone of a man who’s always out to make a point. “Late for what? It’s Saturday, right?”

He inhales briskly, opening his eyes as if a syringe of caffeine found his veins. He pauses, props himself up on an elbow, and rolls away to reach for the watch tick-ticking on his nightstand.

“It’s Saturday, right?” 

But he’s out of the bed and jumping into his closet.

[birdasaurus]

[delta-breezes]

Fluffy Sponge Cake w/Balsamic Strawberries | Call Me Cupcake

[thismonsterlies]

He isn’t used to having another in his bed. While the first night he hadn’t stirred or awoken from his slumber, now he lacks the help of a drug to bridge him through to the morning. 

It’s still dark out, but L’s breath is heavy and deep, seemingly asleep. Even in the dark of night, his skin is easy to find. Curiously, he traces L’s shoulder with the edge of a crooked finger. L wouldn’t be alone in thinking that that was a lackluster way to conclude the night. But what more could he say?

Good night.

I think I might love you.

But I certainly still hate you. 

An arm slithers around L’s frame, pulling them closer such that Light can serve as the bigger spoon. Even backhanded, as a undiscussed gesture, he thinks this feels better. And drifts off to sleep...