A/N: A little something for the best holiday of the year! :D …which was written in early September, at some ungodly hour of the night, as usual. :P Hooray for Drabble Game prompts getting out of control!
Happy birthday, L! XD Don't ask questions 'til it's over. ;)
From where he sits curled on his four-poster bed, when the curtains around it conspire with the drapes at the window to part and whisper at the same moment, L can just see the moonrise. He brings a thumb absently to his lips, eyes glazing over slightly as he drifts into daydreams, his thoughts just thicker than average—they swathe him in their arms, half-memory, half-speculation.
He doesn't quite fit in the world that has been offered him, and he knows it, but he can't bring himself to refuse a gift given in such earnest. The state really would have him as its prince, someday as its king, strange as he is. He can't understand why; a defective prince would surely yield a defective rule.
They don't say "defect"; they say "anomaly," but the import is clear enough. Courtiers are like that. Perhaps that is another reason he runs against their current—he prefers to say things as he sees them. As they are.
Three-quarters conscious, he gazes towards the window. The breeze sets the two sets of curtains to rippling in unison, and the faintest smile finds his lips as the silver moon winks out from around their folds. They slide into place once more, and then they undulate again, and a dark shape drops near-soundlessly to the floor—
Suddenly L's eyes are fully open, his ears perked, every sense straining. He lowers his fingers slowly from his mouth, spreading them, preparing, if necessary, to strike to kill.
A shadow darts between the curtains—nightmare lightning—and pauses there. Filtered moonlight glints on an ivory grin.
L cares nothing for games. "Who are you?" he inquires pointedly, unfolding his knees just slightly, just enough to free his legs for motion…
The newcomer bows low, ceding L a long look and a thin smile as he comes back up. L manages to stifle an outward indication of his surprise. It's a vampire.
And an extremely attractive one at that.
"Light," the creature answers in a voice like the rustle of silk, like the sigh of the wind that plays through the blossoming trees, pulling petals in its wake.
"An odd name," the vampire concedes blithely, shoulders rolling in an elegant shrug. "But no odder than L."
Again he smiles, and the honeyed warmth of it melts away the insult.
L shakes himself inwardly. What in the world is he thinking?
"Please go away," he says, less imperiously than he would like.
The dark creature bends partway, and before L can articulate a protest, Light has climbed onto the bed, moving on all fours, black cloak eddying around him and pooling on the sheets.
"What are you doing?" L demands, hearing the squeak in his voice.
"Mmm…" With unnatural speed the creature surges forward, and he is there, everywhere, pressed shamelessly against his victim— "Seducing you." —their collarbones clashing, their hair mingling, their cheeks so close L can feel Light's warm breath against his neck—
The teeth—the fangs—graze the sensitive skin that joins his neck and his shoulder, and he chokes on a soft, wordless cry.
"I've been watching you," Light whispers, "for a long time."
L recoils, trying to slip out of this demon's grasp and run, flee, fly for his life and worse, but Light's hands are faster, and he pushes L gently against the headboard—Gently, L thinks madly, almost tenderly, almost as if…
The moisture of Light's breath on his skin is dizzying. His own breath comes in weak, abbreviated gasps that serve only to exacerbate the vertigo, magnifying it without mercy. The breeze twirls unconcernedly through the gap in the curtains, but there isn't enough air in the room—
Needlepoint fangs dance over his neck, and his nerves prickle, possibly in anticipation.
"Light—" he whispers weakly, eyes pinched shut, finding his fingers clenched in the velvet expanses of the cloak, finding that he's pulling the vampire closer— "I—don't—I—"
"Hush, love," Light murmurs back, the sugar-voice soothing L's fears against his will, the voice's lips so warm and soft and endlessly enticing that they alone could assuage the doubts—
A pressure, and the sudden pain of the broken skin. Then the bubbling warmth of twin trickles of blood—of his blood—and then another warmth, this one wet as well—Light's tongue—on his neck—his skin—his—
But somehow it's not wrong, not wrong at all—
L opens his eyes. He blinks up at the ceiling. The rattle of the handcuffs and the tautness of the chain indicate that Light-kun has attempted to sidle into the bathroom, per habit. L pries himself off of the pillow, the red numbers on the clock burning an unfriendly hour onto the insides of his eyelids, and goes to join him there.
L hates mirrors for what he sees in them, but when he glances accidentally into this one, he notices something that wasn't there when he went to bed.
There is a small, oblong bruise on his neck, flecked with little spots of flaring red where the blood vessels have ruptured. Have been ruptured.
"Light-kun…?" he manages dazedly, lifting a hand gingerly and tentatively to the place. "Wh—"
"I had nothing to do with it," Light pledges much too quickly.