Just this once, Light thinks. He doesn't look at L's eyes. He lowers his head, crouching near where L perches on the balls of his feet, seemingly nonchalant, but he can feel his deliberately vacant gaze tracking him on the back of his head. He sort of sits into L, ending with his head against the chest covered in the customary white shirt. It's not dingy like he thought it would be at first. L's shirts always smell like teddy bear and crackle like static. The darkness comes from the shadows that seem to drape down L's body, hovering under his uncontrollable hair, under the planes of his body as he shifts, under his eyes as his mind ticks with the certainty that Light is Kira.
Eighty-six percent, Light thinks. Light is eighty-six percent sure that L already knows, but also ninety-seven percent certain that L won't turn him away. That he can have this moment where he doesn't even bother looking at L's face and simply curl into him in a sort of bone-weary lack-luster repose where the adrenaline is gone and all he wants is to cling to the fabric and pretend that the body beneath is as solid and unrelenting as L's belief in his fundamental nature.
Neither of them have any energy left. He presses his skull lightly against L's breastbone, not nearly enough force to tip them over, not nearly enough to satisfy him when he feels as though he can allow himself to take this for granted, not because he knows it will last forever, but because he knows it won't and all he feels now is bitter resignation and a vague sense of loss that he's buffered himself from ever since L looked at him with recognition in his eyes, identifying that he was whole and himself and yet welcome anyway.
He traces his finger along the veins on L's forearm. He's tense because he's balancing, while Light has already submitted his last act. He traces rivulets that flow along pale skin, traces this feeling like his blood is slowly dimming within his own veins even as he feels L hold firm in his position, body perpetually balanced and subtly curved around him as he simply lets L balance his increasingly careless form. He lets his expression go and his face goes lax. The time for the bright-eyed ingénue is long past and he just can't find the proper Kira-like glee at this moment. He reaches for his masks and finds them all missing. L is such a thief.
The arm he's absently trailing his fingertips on turns over, and Light lets his hand dangle from where he rests it on L's thigh. He feels cold fingers thread through his hair, moving it as it hangs heavily, shifting against his neck, shifting against his mind as his body temperature seems to change in order to match L's, or perhaps it's the other way around.
But it doesn't matter, because the tiles are pressing in through his pants, and he can feel the dirt underneath his fingertips since they'd set everything aside during their last push, and he'd let himself go as the game ended, even as L perched there as he had all along, not gazing at him, but staring across to the horizon, as if nothing would ever change. And Light chooses to believe that they can stay this way for now, and he closes his eyes as though when he opens them, things will still be the same.
It's only this once, Light knows, because this is the only time. He knows because they're sitting together, and he feels like he's betrayed something immense and unseen, only he's only done what comes naturally and stubbornly, and he and L have danced their lives like marionettes to the driving rhythm of unbreakable principles and pride. He knows because the rain is pouring all around them, and it's drenching L's shirt and he can even feel the coldness in his socks, and L's feet are cold, and by tomorrow, they'll be cold forever. And by now, it's too late.