Title: Encounters
Working Title: the L/Raito thing, which I blame entirely on Renquise. -blows raspberry-
Warnings: Slight spoilers for things past chapter 11 (character) and chapter 19 (setting). Attempts at yaoi and firstfic in Death Note fandom. Yeah, it's as bad as it sounds. Really. Well no, there's no blatant sex going on. I'm not that adventurous. I'd rate it a rather strong PG-13.
Summary: This was the only place where they would exchange no words so they would spill no secrets.
Notes: I use Ryuuga as L's name just because that's what Raito knows him as. And I don't think he'd call him Hideki, because that's too informal. The boys need their breathing space, after all. And Raito is just Raito because I think that L would think of Raito's dad if he called him Yamagi, and that's just disturbing. .


Raito knew that Ryuuga knew who he was. He knew that Ryuuga lived to kill him, and that in turn, he lived to kill Ryuuga. They were caught up in each other, their lives inexplicably intertwined. He knew that without a doubt, he should write Ryuuga's name in the Death Note and be rid of the one man who knew who he was.

Raito sucked in a breath. Ryuuga's fingers pressed froglike on his chest, legs straddling Raito in a careless pile that characterized him in a way that no name ever could. Ryuuga liked to touch his fingers to Raito's body, to feel each swell and dip of his flesh, and to make that a part of him. Everytime they ended up like this, with Raito on his back, shirt undone and pants pulled open, Ryuuga memorized his body with the tips of his fingers.

They were always silent, except for a few scattered gasps and moans. Neither of them had words to say, and neither of them knew what to call the other, what to call out when they jerked and lost their cunning edge to pleasure.

Raito knew who Ryuuga was and Ryuuga knew who Raito was. They knew the names that other people called them, the ones that meant more to the world. They knew that Raito was Kira and Ryuuga was L and that they were going to kill each other.

But with quivering flesh still slick with sweat and bodies that never stay as focussed as the mind, it didn't matter as much as it did out in the world. Here in the dormitory where neither of them stayed but both kept rooms in, it didn't matter in the same ways.

Ryuuga was strangely fastidious. He hated touching skin to exposed skin and avoided laying with his body in contact with Raito's after they were done. Instead, he traced his fingers whisper soft over Raito's body, following the lines of rib and the faintly defined muscles. He spent silent hours, watching his fingers play across the expanse of barely tanned flesh, eyes wide and observant.

Raito was different. He never smoothed out the sheets, instead left them wrinkled and hot under his back. He would close his eyes and breathe and feel Ryuuga's fingers across his chest. He would lose himself in the feel of fingertips spiderwalking across his skin, goosebumps raising on his arms. He drowned the thoughts that marched across his mind in those fingers, secure that here, naked and next to his enemy, nothing would be given away.

This was the only place where they would exchange no words so they would spill no secrets.

They never spoke. When the time came, Raito would get up, pick up his clothing from around the room and try to straighten out the wrinkles before putting them on. His fingers would put button in buttonhole, skipping easily over the buttons lost to when Ryuuga lost patience. They were unsightly gapes in his shirt, but they didn't matter. They meant nothing to anyone but him and perhaps Ryuuga, who knew that they were one of the few reminders of their silent encounters. He was old enough now that they were his own memories, not some to be added to his father's or his mother's, in questions about how he received the bruises on his hips or the bites on his collarbone or how his clothing came to be as rumpled as they were. He didn't need to face his father or his mother and explain himself. He didn't need to explain anything.

He didn't need to explain anything, not even to the man still on the bed, legs still sprawled at ungainly angles, watching him with the same wide eyes. He didn't need to explain anything, not even when he slipped out the door, knowing that in a few minutes, Ryuuga would follow and they would resume their roles as Kira and L.

He knew that even after they left, the room would remain emtpy, mussed up and dirty, scent of sex still heavy in the air.

He didn't need to explain that. He knew.

Kira closed the door; L watched him do it.


A/N: This story came from a late night conversation that a friend and I had online. I know it's a terrible excuse for the weak characterization, but I didn't particularly try very hard on this one. It was just to get L and Raito in bed together. XD (And lo, the shallow fangirl strikes!)

renquise: O.o Man, the two boys would still be thinking it alllll through...
keraha: ohgod, I had this horrible mental image of L and Raito psychoanalyzing each other in a fic prior to crazy smut. [[--bad fic snippet here--]]
renquise: XDDDDDD Ahahahah. And the scary thing is, that would be the way it would probably happen, if hell froze over and there was smut between the two.