AN: This is a prompt challenge that I originally started back in February, but had to put on the back-burner due to school. There are, as of now, 50 prompts, about half of which are already written. I will be taking one-word prompt requests, so if anybody has some, please, feel free to send them my way.
Title is taken from the song "Point Break" by Seabound.
Disclaimer: Death Note is the intellectual property of Obha Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi.
L had always hated the colour yellow. It was too bright, too happy; too fake. He had always thought there was some sort of contrived cheerfulness to it, as if it some kind of sinister monster was lurking just beneath its surface. He couldn't help but think of Light, that cheerful façade of his and the killer that was lurking just beneath.
He knew that being close to Light was a hazard to his health – carcinogenic, his presence burying itself underneath his skin like a disease, multiplying rapidly like cancer cells, taking him over, inch by inch, until he finally succeeded in killing him. Light was a poison, L knew, but he just couldn't stay away.
The early morning light shines over the tall skyscrapers of Tokyo. It paints the world bright and golden and nearly blinding the two men sitting on the roof of one such building, admiring the view – it's these peaceful moments together that allow them to forget, for a time, that they are destined to be the death of one another.
The apple that Light is holding is red and shiny, and L can't help but stare as the boy brings it to his mouth and takes a bite, the sharp, crisp sound echoing in the otherwise dark and silent room. His breath catches for a moment when he thinks he sees Light's eyes flash red – L, do you know shinigami love apples? – but it's gone in an instant, and he wonders if he only imagined it. He misses Light's grin as he turns away.
It's a cold and rainy day in early November when L's heart suddenly spasms and stops in his chest. Light has been waiting a long time for his victory, but the silence that follows is almost deafening.
A finger trails delicately up the curve of his spine; Light shivers at the icy touch. L's always so cold, his lithe little body never seemingly able to generate its own heat, but the expression on L's face, usually so stoic and closed, reveals and inner warmth that burns Light to the core.
L feels as if he's fallen into a sea of fire, every nerve sparking with white-hot electricity that radiates outwards from the centre of his chest. He never thought that dying would be so painful.
In the days (weeks, months, years) after L's death, Light dreams of him. It's the same dream as always; L is reaching out towards him with his long, spidery fingers, pale white and slender, but his body is now nothing more than a desiccated corpse, withered, an empty husk of the man he used to be. And every time those bone dry fingers are curled delicately around a pulsing mass of bloody flesh – thump, thump, thump, can't you hear it, Light? L would ask. My heart, it beats only for you – every night Light wakes up screaming.
Lind L. Tailor, he writes in the death note and forty seconds later the man on the television grasps at his chest and collapses on his desk, dead. As others rush towards him and the station suddenly cuts out, Light starts to laugh, a deep, satisfied sound – who knew it would have been this easy to kill the great L? His mission's only just begun and already his victory has been assured. A voice addresses him directly through the screen, then, the letter L in the middle of the otherwise white screen; this man, this L, has already won round one.
"I wonder," L whispers suddenly, his breath warm against Light's throat, "if you'll be the one to condemn me."