The title of this story comes from the account of Scylla in Ovid's Metamorphoses.

Please don't go. I'll eat you whole.

As soon as Light realized he wasn't going to be let out anytime soon, he took to scratching the passage of time into the walls, like any good prisoner should.

"I didn't do this during the confinement," he said, digging into the soft paint with his thumbnail. "I won't make that mistake now."

He could feel L watching him through the door to the prison cell. He glanced over, and pretended that it was L who was behind bars. For a split second, he had convinced himself, and he laughed with delight.

"I told you how many days had passed," L said, eyeing the laughter with suspicion, "whenever you asked me. Why would I not do so again?"

L's lips were so thin and pale. Light wanted to bite some color into them.

"Because you love me now," he said. He loved L now too, of course.

"And that would make me lie to you?" L was genuinely surprised. He didn't know how these things worked yet. It was his first time in love, after all. Light remembered distinctly the moment L had revealed this. It had been after their fourth time screwing—lucky number four. They had gotten smashed with drinking games and bad sake beforehand, to psych themselves up for the deed, and afterwards they had kissed each other gently and shivered in each other's arms. L had said it was his first time in love, and Light had said it was his first time viewing another person as his equal.

"Well," Light said, "it would make you hurt me."

L's eyes were so soulless and dark. Light wanted to claw them out.

It wasn't going to be only two months this time. He had known that he would be facing years of incarceration, legal or otherwise, from the moment he had been caught writing down Higuchi's bloody name by L—who had been more attentive than the plan had allowed for, due to the unanticipated development of their sexual relationship. So, in addition to marking up the walls, Light was coming up with long-term survival plans—psychological survival, that was to say.

If he fixated on becoming Kira again for every waking moment of the next fifty years, he would drive himself out of his mind with restless fury. On the other hand, if he fell into a depressive spell of inactivity, he wouldn't be ready when the time finally came for him to be Kira.

And so, he decided that he would give himself a sabbatical, one out of every seven months—lucky number seven—in which he would not think about the Kira case. After all, even the biblical god rested on the seventh day.

If L brought Kira up, though, or if a sudden opportunity presented itself, all bets were off. The God of the New World was no legalist.

The first six months passed like molasses, like pitch, like plate tectonics. Although only triple the length of the confinement, it was nine times more difficult.

L wouldn't tell him what had been done with Rem's Death Note, and Light was losing hope that Ryuk would ever come back to return the Death Note he had buried. It was beginning to look like this time he would have to manipulate not the ownership of Death Notes, but L himself. And it wasn't that Light was particularly averse to manipulating L, but he knew, as brilliant as he was, that it was going to be near impossible.

He was moody, cross, and volatile, and he began to frighten even himself.

At first, L withdrew, visiting rarely, speaking still more infrequently. They hadn't touched each other since before the imprisonment, and L didn't even make contact with the bars anymore. It was likely for the best. If Light had gotten a hold of L's soft, lovely, tense face, he wouldn't have trusted himself not to tear it off entirely.

Then, sometime in the fifth month, something changed.

L was gone for a week, and Light was left alone with his thoughts and his tremors and his twitches. Finally, abruptly, L showed, still and silent as a dormant volcano, and kept showing. He stayed for hours at a time, staring through the bars. Sometimes Light would perch on the edge of his bed, staring back without a word, gripping his pant legs with his soft, smarting fingertips, having bitten his nails past the quick to keep them tidy. Sometimes he would fall to the ground and scream and swear into the floor, beating his fists against the concrete until they bruised. But usually he would sit cross-legged, a comfortable few meters from the prison door, and talk, about philosophy and politics and psychology and anything else that particularly struck his fancy. L never reacted, never spoke, and seemed to be half-trying to trick Light into thinking he was hallucinating.

But then, one day, Light realized: L was listening.

Three days before Kira's sabbatical, Light explained the brilliant idea. He partly wanted to verbalize it so he would truly stick to it, and he partly wanted to brag.

"The seventh month?" L said.

Light's eyes flashed up to meet L's. It was the first time he had spoken in weeks.

"Do you know what traditionally happens in the seventh month? According to the Jewish tradition, I mean?" L asked. His voice was peculiar, warped, as if weighed down by a certain empty hopefulness.

It set Light on edge, and he scowled. "I'm harkening to significant religious themes, not converting to Orthodox fucking Judaism."

L didn't like it when Light swore like that, pissy and offensive. His mouth tightened. Light wanted to kiss it—hard, for good measure. "On the tenth day of the seventh month, it is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement."

Light was distracted, imagining the enjoyment that would follow such a kiss. "Hm?"

"Yom Kippur, Light-kun."

At the address, Light started.

"The Day of Atonement." L's voice was soft, and breathless. "Surely, you don't mean to imply—?"

"Of course not," Light said, wondering at the implication, with a sort of dewy astonishment. "Like I said, it's for my own sanity. You know what could happen otherwise. You know best of all."

With Kira dormant, L determined, not unreasonably, that now was the time to get out of the country. The news that they were leaving was a surprise to Light, who had forgotten that L did not consider Japan home.

It was unclear if they were ever going to come back.

He was wrapped up thoroughly, blindfolded, handcuffed, earplugged, and disoriented with spinning. It was Watari who did the spinning, if the feel of the hands was any indication, which made Light half-disappointed and half-relieved. Then they were walking, then sitting, then Light was made to lie down until the next time he was raised only to be spun, led, and laid down again. For the first several hours, he did his best to gather information about his surroundings, feeling at the fabrics under his fingertips and stomping surreptitiously at the floors. But, eventually, he stopped. It was his month off, after all. Just because he wasn't atoning didn't mean that he couldn't indulge in a bit of surrender.

They were staying at hotel after hotel as they made their way west—not that either L or Watari had informed him of the cardinal direction, but Light hadn't even needed to try in order to figure it out. He was constantly blindfolded and secluded, so his Circadian rhythms had remained almost entirely unaltered. L and Watari, however, were slowly adjusting to the time changes, sleeping in later, not getting drowsy as early. Eventually Light was falling asleep in the afternoon and regaining his alertness in the middle of the night, when L and Watari were just becoming sleepy and off guard. This was enough of a security risk that they started letting him look at one curtained window, through which he could see the sun rising and setting.

Unfortunately, the adjustment initially just pendulum-swung him in the other direction, spoiling his sleeping schedule. At midnight, when his bedroom lights were turned out, Light would do circuits, first waiting mindlessly under the covers, then counting sheep or backwards from a thousand by sevens, then getting up and wandering in the tight circle permitted by the chains tethering him to the bed. Eventually he added pushups to this cycle, not sure that exercise was entirely conducive to falling asleep, but appreciating the blaze in his muscles.

Then one night, groaning in the middle of an agonizing set, there came an alarmingly close voice in the sheer darkness: "I beg your pardon."

Light swore, his arms buckling under him.

"I apologize," the voice said now—L's voice, of course.

"Good fucking Lord," Light ground out, and he felt for the lamp.

L was perched on the counter outside the bathroom, comfortable and wide-eyed. "Oh," he said. "You look entirely decent."

What was that supposed to mean? "You were watching me sleep?" Light demanded.

L gave him a skeptical look. "Yagami-kun," he said, "no one hearing those noises would think you were sleeping."

Of all the childish things! "I was exercising. Get your deductive mind out of the gutter."

L shrugged. "Alright then. I simply didn't want to intrude."

"What the hell are you doing in here? Whendid you even come in?"

L shrugged again. "I wanted to talk. You had dozed off when I walked in, but I had imagined you would wake up soon, which you did. Only you didn't turn the light on. And you began making noises—"

"I was doing push-ups," Light said dryly. "Well. What did you want to talk to me about?"

L considered for a moment, and then said, mid-thought, "Do you think they love him?" Light waited patiently for the question to make sense. "The way they talk about him, in the streets, on the news, in their interviews—do they love Kira?"

What was L doing bringing up the Kira case? It was as if he wanted Light to start strategizing again. Was it a play on his sanity? If so, it was an awfully risky play. Light's mental health may have been delicately balanced, but it wasn't nearly so fragile.

But L was looking at him expectantly now, so Light sighed and offered, "Surely, they are appreciative, grateful, supportive, even protective of Kira. If you'd like, you can call that love."

"But how do they love Kira? As a god, or as a human?"

Warm feelings of righteous divinity were fluttering up in Light's throat, but he shoved them down in honor of his sabbatical. "It must be a mix of both. Some view him"—rightly!—"as a god; others do not feel the same."

L fidgeted. "How can they love him," he insisted, more quietly, "if they do not know him?"

Finally, it clicked. Light started. "You're jealous."

L did not avert his gaze, but he also did not say anything.

Light shook the chains, hotly. "You have me with you every moment of the day. The only face I see other than yours is Watari's. You can watch me shower whenever you want to, for God's sake. I'm going to be with you until one of us dies. What more do you want?"

"It's not the same," L said. "It's not the same as before we knew you were Kira."

"You always knew I was Kira," Light snapped, not listening properly.

"You didn't." L was angry now, at being misunderstood, and he spoke without reserve. "It's not the same as when you didn't know you were Kira. It's not the same as when you were free to love me."

"I assure you," Light said, icily, "I am entirely free to love you or not to love you. And you are goddamn lucky that I still do."

L jumped to his feet, and for a moment Light was sure that he was going to either punch him or kiss him, but he simply left swiftly, hurt.

Light turned off the lamp and got back into bed, heart pounding. Staring into the darkness, he realized that it had been a lie. He couldn't stop loving L, not ever, not even if he wanted to. What good was being a god if you couldn't control even that?

A few days later, there were protesters outside the hotel. Apparently, a major anti-Kira politician was staying in the same building. She was going to deliver a speech the following day, and hundreds of people were unhappy about it. So unhappy, in fact, that they were singing.

This is Lord Kira's world.

O let me ne'er forget

That though the wrong seems oft so strong,

He will be ruler yet.

Of course Light was counting the days, but with all the travel he had somehow lost track. One evening, when he was sure that it was day twenty-nine of his sabbatical, L came in, wary and on edge, asking softly whether Light was enjoying his final—thirtieth?—day off.

Outwardly, Light gave a mild, indifferent shrug. Inwardly, he was trying to figure out whether L was just messing him, and if not, then when the fuck he had miscounted.

Shuffling, L came slowly to where Light was sitting on the floor against the wall, next to the sink in front of the bathroom, handcuffed at the wrists and chained to the toilet. L squatted all the way down, linking his fingers behind his back. Maddeningly, he stared at Light for several endlessly long seconds. And then Light shot forward, snapping his teeth at L's face.

L flinched back, startled. He had caught himself, just barely, and the fingertips of his right hand pressed into the rough carpet. "What was that?" he asked.

Light felt his blood roiling, hot with the pleasure of an impulsive movement, the feeling a thin cloak for his anger with himself for losing track of reality, and with L for informing him of it. "I was going in for a kiss," he finally said.

L blinked. "And you thought that would work on me?" Light stared, and L shook his head, expressionless. "You'll have to be kinder than that."

Light almost missed the invitation, but underneath that flat affect, L was presenting himself shyly, with a delicately upturned chin.

Light stared, buzzing and puzzled. Why the sudden change? Was this a trap? And, more importantly, did Light have the restraint to simply kiss L, instead of biting into his throat?

L noticed the pause, looked at Light's expression, closely, and drew his chin back in.

"You've never been with me while you were Kira, I suppose," he reflected, and Light did not know if he meant it not only sexually, but also strategically.

"I'm still not Kira," he said.

"For three more minutes."

Light raised his brows suggestively, and L laughed, once.

"You think that's enough time for anything?"

Light shrugged. "Enough." But still he did not move, for the love in L's eyes was as much—as little—of a turn-on as condemnation.

Finally, "Must I be the one to do everything?" L murmured, and he leaned in too quickly for Light's imagination to run wild.

They got in a solid ten seconds of kissing before Light impulsively bit nearly through L's lip.

L scrambled away, tears glossing his eyes, holding a sleeve to his wound. "I should have known," he said, and Light fought briefly to put remorse into his eyes. "I should have known better."

And then it was midnight, and he was Kira again, and Watari came into the room to blindfold him.

And then there was a raid. With all the moving around, something had slipped.

It happened almost without sound. There was a faint metallic clatter in the other room, as if of a spoon being dropped onto the linoleum. Light's sightlessness was almost an advantage. Watari's suit whispered, as if he stood, and there was a knock at the door.

"It isn't L," Light wanted to say, but the door opened, and then there was a muffled cry, a muffled shot, and a quite unmuffled thump, of perhaps a large, elderly body in a suit falling to the ground.

And then, very quickly, the tables turned. Fighting could be heard in the other room, mostly hard kicks of bodies into furniture, and then silence, and then footsteps, and then L's violently trembling hands were removing Light's blindfold.

"Holy shit."

Watari was bleeding out from his forehead onto the bedroom floor, and a darkly clad figure was collapsed in the doorframe.

The chains sang out against each other as L unhandcuffed him.

"Take the feet," L said, shoving Light's shoulder blades forward. "I'm taking the hands. We're going out the window."

And with every movement, Light was screaming reprimands at himself. Drop the old man off the balcony. What in god's name are you doing? What the hell made you pick him up in the first place? Who cares if L's lip is dripping blood down his chin? That doesn't mean he won't turn you in to the authorities the first chance he gets, now that he can't imprison you himself. In fact, this is the perfect time to eliminate him. You're still three stories up. That should be enough of a fall. He's not even looking at you. He's crying. It wouldn't take more than twenty seconds. Faster than a Death Note.

He made no reply to his objections. He couldn't. All he could do was clamber impossibly off the final balcony and onto the pavement, shuffle with L into the nearest alley, drop the body in the corner, and watch L try to figure out what to do next.

They wound up in an Irish bar that was a converted church. About time, for a church to be the one converted.

It was past one in the morning. L had double checked that Watari was stone cold dead, removed all of the identifying objects on his body, and fled, holding tight to Light's hand all the while. At the time, it hadn't seemed strategically sound for Light to pull away just yet. Now, in the bar, they were pressed closer than ever, L's body chilled and tight against his side as they wove through the crowded room with feigned purpose.

L stopped at a post and turned, handing Light a beer that he had stolen along the way.

Light took it and asked, "What are we doing here?"

L shook his head, cupping his hand to his ear.

"What are we doing here?" Light asked, louder.

L repeated the gesture again, with a twitch of a smile this time. His lower lip was swollen and gashed by Light's bite, and his eyes were glassy and crimson.

Light compressed his mouth and came in close, nearly touching L's ear. "What the fucking hell are we doing here?"

L pointed to Light's beer and said, equally close, "We're in disguise." Light was about to object that a bottle of beer was the worst disguise he had ever seen, but L, anticipating this, said, closer and softer, "We have no money, clothes, or belongings. We have no way of knowing who is after us or why. And if you leave me, I'll turn you in to the police."

Light looked L dead in the eye and said, "What makes you think I won't kill you first?"

L swallowed visibly, and Light took a sip of his beer.

After staying in the bar until closing, they were turned out on the street in the barely warm summer night, where they took turns sleeping and serving as a pillow and lookout. For all their threats to end each other's lives, L held Light's hands between his as he slept, and Light swatted mosquitoes away from L's face. They each snatched a couple poor hours of sleep, and then when the sun began haloing over the buildings, L's eyes flickered calmly open, and his head remained lying in Light's lap for several thoughtful minutes. Light stared not into L's eyes, but at the scab that had formed on his bottom lip overnight. Eventually, he sat up and told Light what they were going to do.

L had an emergency contact, of course, for if Watari were ever killed. The arrangements had even accounted for L's affection for Light and his unwillingness to get him put on death row unless entirely necessary. Their safe location would accommodate keeping Light out of the legal system and yet also imprisoned. All they needed to do was get funds, disguises, and travel accommodations, as quickly and discreetly as possible.

Their first stop was a library with public computers, which would allow L to work some magic and make cash available at a nearby bank. Once the library finally opened and let them in, L made Light face definitively away from the screen as he typed, and Light swiveled back and forth beside him on the neighboring chair, squeaking, and held tight to L's belt loop so that neither of them could sneak away.

Light must have been an out-of-his-mind lovestruck fool to not have killed L yet. Screw weapons; the sheer desperation should have been enough to claw L to pieces. And yet, here Light was, hooked to L's side and wondering if this new situation meant that they would start sleeping together again.

Kira throttled him savagely, baring his teeth. Light had to snap out of it. Kira needed him. No. Kira needed…

Rem's Death Note. It had to be either back in the last hotel room, or in a vault somewhere in Japan—or, perhaps, Europe—or anywhere at all. And Light began to despair, but Kira delivered a sound slap upside his head. Yes. It had to be back in the hotel room. L would never have left the Death Note unattended, where someone could be paid off to break into the storage unit and get their hands on it. The safest place for the Death Note, L must have thought, was where he could keep the closest eye on it. Maybe that was even why the assassins had been there, to get their hands on the slim black book that they realized had the power to kill. Before they left the city, Light had to convince L to go back to the hotel.

But, no, that didn't make sense either. Kira simmered, impatiently. Of course. L would go back for the Death Note of his own accord. All Light had to do was make sure L took him along. So the question was just this: how could he make himself seem like just enough of a security risk to not be able to be left alone for any time at all?

Abruptly, L squeezed his hand. Light's gaze flickered over, sharply, but then he caught himself and smiled, brow unfurrowing, with innocence. L appeared unconvinced.

"Are you finished?" Light asked.

"Yes."

Light leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to L's cheek. When he saw the way L was eying him warily, his smile became real.

L took the outfit off the first mannequin he saw: a t-shirt, joggers, and a hoodie. Light started picking out a blazer—navy instead of his usual tan—but L rolled his eyes and handed him a grey sweatshirt and acid wash blue jeans. Grumbling over the painfully reasonable choice, Light was about to follow L into the dressing room to allow himself to be supervised when L blocked the doorway.

"It will look suspicious," L said, quite suspiciously. "You change in that room. I'll knock when I'm done."

Afterwards, L stopped at a makeup counter for free undereye coverage. At a salon, L's hair was cut shorter and lightened, and Light's hair was buzzed. Light was crabby and hungry by the end of it, and L allowed him to pick up something to eat on the way, but wouldn't let them stop. When Light asked if he was worried that they were being followed, L shook his head, claiming he simply wanted to get on the next ferry from Dublin. He pointed in front of them, in the opposite direction of the hotel.

Light stopped in the middle of the street, and L lurched to a stop a few feet ahead. "We're not going anywhere else first?"

L turned and eyed him sharply. "No. Why?"

Light was recalculating, desperately working to determine the most likely place the Death Note could be if it was not still in the hotel awaiting L's pick-up, when L interrupted this.

"It's not there," he said, looking somewhat wounded. "Please, give this up."

L had seen through him as if he were film. Light's first instinct was to pout and be sullen, to shoulder past L and get in a few steps before L had to hurry and catch up to him. But those were the actions of a free citizen, not a prisoner of war. He stretched out his right hand, making nice, and L, after a moment's hesitation, grasped it. They walked hand-in-hand to the ferry and neither let go until they made it to Holyhead.

An armored car was waiting at the dock. L slid over the backset to the right side, and Light sat on the left. There were blinds on the windows, but Light could see the setting sun glowing softly behind L's head; they were going south.

The first time Light began to speak, L put a finger to his lips and then pointed to the front seat. Odd. Their chauffer could be trusted to drive Kira around, but not to hear what Kira might say? L didn't speak either, which made for a fairly boring car ride. To pass the time, Light imagined ways he might escape: faking a serious ailment to get to a hospital, asking for a bathroom break on threat of shitting himself, doing a barrel roll onto the side of the highway. When he was starting to seriously consider the mechanics of the locked car door, they turned and then seemed to come to a stop. The front door clicked open and shut, and a few minutes passed. Finally, Light heard the characteristic snick of all four car doors unlocking.

L got out on his side. "Come on," he said. "It's time for bed."

Light didn't move. No blindfolds? No handcuffs? No disorienting spinning?

L hesitated, and then opened his door for him. "What's wrong? Surely you don't expect me to be a gentleman now."

"Where are we?" Light asked. "Who is here to lock me up?"

L hesitated for a moment. "I thought," he said measuredly, "that you and I might live here for a little while, just the two of us."

It looked like your average two-bedroom apartment, but there were no windows, and the bedrooms were connected by a bulletproof glass wall. The contents of the fridge and cupboards were arranged in tidy rows, and they seemed to refill with food automatically, perhaps from behind like vending machines. On the wall there was an analog clock, which Light mistrusted, but which he couldn't swear was trying to trick him.

For seven days, L sat in his bedroom with sleeves of malted milk biscuits and bottles of orange Tango. He only wept.

On the eighth day, L showered. He emerged from the bathroom with his hair, still trim and a chestnut brown from the disguise, now also washed and combed. Light blinked hard, wondering which stage of grief this was.

"I am going to work," L said, rather woodenly.

"Okay."

"Stay here," he said.

"Okay." Light didn't even bother looking up this time from the game of solitaire he was now dealing onto the living room carpet. This prison was by far the most interestingly stocked, with a deck of cards, a box of colored pencils (but no paper), and an IKEA catalog from 1991.

"And," L added, "don't follow me."

That was eerily redundant. Light looked up. L was staring at him, or, perhaps, through him.

"Have a good day at work," Light said. "I'll be here. Planning my escape."

L didn't even scold him.

"I'll see you tonight, honey," Light tried, more cheerily.

L continued to stand there.

It didn't seem to be catatonia, but Light was concerned, even more than he was intrigued or calculating. He stood and came over to press a quick kiss to L's cheek. "Have a good day at work."

At that, L turned and left.

At 6:00 PM sharp, while Light was re-reading the IKEA catalog over a defrosted frozen dinner, L came in through the outside door—which only seemed to unlock at L's silent command—while wearing the same expression with which he left.

Light didn't joke this time. He had spent the day alone, pressing his fingers along every square inch of the apartment's walls, staring at the King of Diamonds, and doing sit-ups. His sympathy was drained, and his calculation was prowling.

L took the seat at the table beside him. Light got up and prepared the same frozen dinner for him. L ate it quietly. His brown hair had air-dried and was frizzy. When the plastic tray was emptied, Light touched L's bangs, and L shivered. He reached for Light's hand and led him to his bedroom, where they had sex.

Afterwards, Light started to put his clothes back on and go back to his own bedroom, but L caught his arm. "Tell me something," he said.

"What?"

L hesitated. "Something."

Light got back in bed, and they each lay on their own pillow, facing each other. Light was in his briefs and an unbuttoned shirt, and L was still naked.

"When Gaius Julius Caesar was sixteen years old," Light said, "his father died one morning while putting on his shoes. Suddenly, Gaius was the paterfamilias over his whole household. When Gaius was seventeen years old, he was nominated to be the priest of Jupiter for the whole city. When Gaius was twenty years old, he joined the Roman army and served with honors. When Gaius was twenty-four years old, he became a lawyer renowned for his speech. When Gaius was twenty-nine years old, he was elected to his first political position."

Light paused a moment and looked meaningfully at L, who gave the barest smile. "What's the riddle?"

"When," Light asked, "did Gaius become Caesar?"

L rolled onto his back and considered the question. "One would think," he began, slowly, raising his thumbnail to his teeth, "that it might be when his father died. Thousands of Romans were priests, soldiers, lawyers, and politicians. But how many Romans saw their father murdered—" L stopped himself, and Light just stared. "Pass. Saw their father pass, all because of a pair of shoes."

Light smiled.

"What is the answer?" L wanted to know.

"You got it right," Light said. And so he would have said, no matter how L had responded. It wasn't a riddle, but a Rorschach blot.

Every day, when L returned from work, Light pushed away his finished frozen dinner and popped a matching dinner for L into the microwave. While L chewed, Light talked, and L listened quietly. When L was finished, Light took him by the hand, and L walked the two of them to the bedroom. While L lay naked on his side of the bed, Light wore briefs and an unbuttoned shirt, and L listened as he talked.

On purpose, Light had not included his own personal answer to the Gaius Julius Caesar question.

When Gaius was twenty five years old, he was kidnapped by pirates. Instead of treating them as his captors, he spoke to them as his bodyguards. He composed and recited poems and speeches. He snapped at them to be quiet at night. He exercised and played sports with them. He demanded that they increase his ransom from twenty talents to fifty. He threatened to crucify them once he was free, which they laughed at. Once he was rescued, he turned back around to arrest them, and he crucified them all.

This was when Gaius became Caesar.

This went on for five weeks and six days. On the sixth week, Light asked L, "Are you searching for Watari's murderers?" And L nodded his head, yes.

"Do you know who they are?" L gave an ambiguous shrug.

"Do you know their faces?" L nodded, reluctantly.

"Do you know their names?" L would not answer.

Light hesitated, and then asked, "Do you know why I'm asking you?"

L looked down. "Get out," he said, and Light slipped out of bed.

But in the middle of the night, L was shaking Light awake in his bedroom. The hallway light barely illuminated the bed, and Light went to bring a hand to the lamp, but L caught him before he could reach it.

"Don't say anything," L said. And Light did not.

L put something in Light's lap, and Light could feel that it was a pair of L's jeans. Of course. L tucked a hand into the pants and unzipped a pocket that had been added to the interior. Inside, there was a manila envelope with a flat item inside. Light's blood burned.

"We touch it together," L said. And Light did.

Immediately, Rem was visible in the room. L's breath caught audibly in his throat, and Rem looked at him curiously.

"Please," L said to her, "don't bother us."

Rem rolled her eyes and passed through the wall into the other room.

"I want to try," L said. "I think I know their names."

L wrote in the book with a colored pencil, and went back to bed.

Light slept like a baby. He woke wondering whether L had been able to close his eyes all night long.

When L returned from work the next day, he wouldn't eat, and he wouldn't shut up. "I can't believe I was a fucking fool to write in that damn book. I'm going straight to hell. They're still alive. I haven't actually killed anyone. But I tried to. What's next for me? I can't even touch water without being sick." He ranted for twenty minutes straight, and then he went into his bedroom and shut the door.

Light thought for a moment. Kira thought too, and then nodded.

"Rem," Kira called. She floated in through the outside door. "I'd like to make the eyes deal." Rem sighed. Light blinked, and in the reflection from the dark microwave door, he could see his own name written out above his head.

Light went to bed. Kira danced.

Before L could leave for work the next day, Light told him, "Bring me a photograph of them."

L paused, a blazer halfway pulled on. It was very distracting now to see L's name and numbers swimming above his hair, partially black and partially brown: L Lawliet, 6 years and 24 days. Like seeing someone's bottom over the top of their pants. Unaware of the humiliation, L said, "I don't think I'll be allowed to."

Light said, "Try."

Four days later, L came home sweating bullets. He grabbed Light by the neck of his shirt and dragged him across the room, nearly throwing him into the bedroom. L opened his mouth and, with trembling fingers, unwedged a very small piece of folded paper that he had squeezed between two of his molars. He sat next to Light and showed him the creased faces of the four killers. Above their heads, letters and numbers glimmered.

Light looked up and smiled. L was so close that Light could see his own face and name in L's pupils: Yagami Light. "I know their names."

Light had really thought that L would kiss him, but instead he went into the living room, bringing back a red colored pencil, and told Light to write their names onto the back of the paper. The Death Note wasn't in the apartment anymore, naturally.

They shared the bed that night, curled together, neither sleeping fitfully.

L went to work as usual the next morning, paper wedged who-knew-where, but came back home early. His eyes were wide and buzzing. "How did you do it?"

Light's heart was racing. It had worked. And surely L saw now, truly saw. "The Shinigami eyes." Light explained the rest, breathlessly.

L listened, absorbed. "You can see anyone's name and lifespan? Including mine?"

Light nodded, eyes flicking u:. L Lawliet, 6 years and 19 days.

L looked down, swallowing visibly. "He who has eyes to see," he murmured, "let him see."

L saw. And they would be together, forever. No longer would Kira be alone. Two, yet one.

"It cost you half your life," L said. "Why did you do it?"

Kira stretched out his right hand. "A pledge of peace."

Silence.

"I did it for you."

Now L looked up, and his eyes were filled with tears. It was all the invitation Light needed. He tried to pull L to the couch in the living room, but L shook his head and pulled them to the bedroom, turning out the lights.

Light was rough and celebratory at first, kissing more like he was fighting: digging in his nails, yanking at L's soft, faded underwear, falling hard onto the bed. But L continued to touch him slowly, tenderly. Something broke inside of Light, something like his resolve, and he softened against his will. Gently, gently, he stroked, caressed, clung, shivered, sighed. His kisses were like pressed flowers, and his body moved like a stream. It was dangerously close to making love.

When Light woke in the morning, it was to the feeling of L's lips like butterflies on his forehead. "Why did you do it?" L murmured.

"I did it for you," Light sighed sleepily. "So we can be together."

L's lips moved side to side, shaking "no."

Suddenly, Light realized that something was wrong. He opened his eyes. In the lamplight, he read: L Lawliet, 40 years, 7 months, and 16 days.

"I… did not."

When did Gaius become Caesar?

"Goodbye, Light-kun."

L pressed the mark of one thumbnail into the paint on the wall, and left.