June Catchall (L Lawliet + Old and New CR)

[hearthebell]

Character Name: L Lawliet (Lazarus Sauveterre)
Who: Open to CR old and new
What: Catchall for the month of June (memshare, event, detective work, slice of life). Prompts in comments.
When: Throughout the month of June
Where: Throughout Trench

Content Warnings: Included at the beginning of the prompts that warrant them.

Comments

[necrolord]

[ It's the right thing to say. The tension in him uncoils, and he turns to look at L directly, though he would never look at L like this: with such weary exhaustion, with such heavy love unguarded in his face. ]

Fair point. There's always you, me, and the slate. [ He says it like a joke, as though whoever he's talking to will not quite understand that the slate is a metaphor. He reaches out to take L's hands in his, and this is an echo of the last muddled dream: he holds them as though unsure of what to do except hold on. He holds them like L will be his anchor, somehow. ] And they love you, too, alright? They really do.

[ He says it, so very transparently, like a man hoping to convince himself.

Behind that door, the voices swell louder, and the shape of the dream becomes a little clearer: some great sense of foreboding, of loss, hangs upon this threshold. Inside that room will be warm and loud and lively, but out in this bright and cold hall, he does not have to hide a speck of the emotion in his eyes. It feels like being asked to choose. Whoever he holds hands with, he looks at them with all the bittersweet longing of a man beholding his own great vice. ]

[hearthebell]

[If something was clenched or concerned in L, it likewise releases when the Emperor seems to accept the ruse fully, once more. He peers back as though he's exactly who he is supposed to be and not some nocturnal stand-in, and he's being spoken to as if he's so much dumber than he is.

He smiles, canting his head, teeth flashing in a quick wince of a grin as those voices rise and envelop.]

I can only try to earn their love, as you have.

[He's not used to being looked at with that expression, as though someone has placed him above everything in the world. It's the reason, over every other possible one, that he places a light and chaste kiss close to the emperor's ear, his own brow glancing close to those baby bones in the other man's crown.]

Tell them what you need to. The truth is always safe with me; however ugly, I will hold it close and sacred.

[necrolord]

[ There's that flicker again, uncertainty worsening now, his gaze gone inward as though he's trying to find the math behind that statement. As though he's trying to sort out who taught him (her) this. Was it him? Did he say he'd earned the love of the people in those room, that they owed it to him? He probably had. He really probably had.

This tension melts from him when L (when she) leans forward and presses lips beside his ear. He tips forward, lets his head drop to L's (to her) shoulder. It's so easy, so easy, to clasp a hand at the nape of L's (of her) neck in embrace.

(Something is wrong, but he doesn't want it to be, so he holds her.) ]

I know, love.

[hearthebell]

[It really does feel like being loved.

Not having known that, in his life before Trench, L recognizes it, at least for what it cannot be. That's why he lets someone with the history, the motive and the reason to hold the body he inhabits, just for another few moments so he can gently tilt and rock and feel that sweetness.

It'll cost him dearly; it'll cost him everything. In the end, he will say that it was all worth it, and he would do it again for what that love felt like at his neck and around his thin shoulders, a shield for everything, beauty and mercy and sorrow put through a wood-chipper until a final, soft and blameless product papered the ground ahead.

He closes his eyes. Nothing's wrong; this is OK. He's just another body. Nothing about this body promises damnation. He holds the Emperor closer with his slender, reedy arms. Though he is the Emperor's height at a spindly 5'10", he is probably slight enough to pass for a woman in his arms, without question, and--

...and that's what this is, isn't it, a lover, a wife, the mother of desired children? That's the role I play when I have such a purpose, such a target, and want to see that Paul is accounted for.

L has never been that much to anyone. As the Emperor presses him close, his breath catches, and he just nods against the other, a sweet agreement that he would consider this worthy of death, to experience for just a moment longer.

He's always had a bad time, separating "passion" from everything else. It could be love; it could be the deepest possible hatred. It's not indifference, and so he clings, feeling real and silent as he soaks in another's unconditional affection.]

[necrolord]

[ (This isn't how—)

(But he wants it to be.)

John's fingers uncurl slowly from the warm nape of his (her) neck, and he exhales a sigh that ruffles the hair at L's ear. For a moment the distance between them is still scant and warm. When he lifts away, he holds L's gaze through the fringe of his hair; it isn't quite clear what he thinks he's seeing, but he hides none of it from his face. For just a moment, the bittersweet longing is painful.

He swallows, flexes his hands. He steps fully apart, now, and the humanity begins to drop away from him. He straightens and is the Emperor again. ]

I'll be right back.

[ He won't, though. The ache of the lie is there in his voice, right at the surface, as though he does not expect her to comprehend it.

He turns to the doors. The dream is already dissipating by the time they creak open. ]

/end!

[hearthebell]

[Dreams are peculiar; L perceives his body, and the Emperor's, exactly as they are. But dreams manifest far more than objective reality; there is a reason that "wishing" and "dreaming" are kissing, occasionally synonymous cousins. He's seen into the man's heart during this foray, and managed to do it undetected, and "wishing" is in fact the reason why the Emperor saw him through a lens that twisted the sharp-featured, scrawny detective into the soft-focused glow of someone cherished, protected, beloved.

A weak point he wears on his sleeve only within the safety of his own mind.

L nods, smiling lightly as the Emperor steps away from him and they part ways. He is suppressing urges, just like the man whose privacy he has so flagrantly invaded. Call me by my name, he could beseech, so he knows the identity of the person the dream has disguised him as. He could pry into any number of things that this person would presumably know, but still be able to get the Emperor to tell him (or "her"; it's "her", he would bet life and limb that it's "her".)

It's too much of a risk now. He can't push his luck. The dream melts away and he is back in his own mind, a locked room with the only light source emanating from the glowing screen of a computer rig on the floor. He enters his password and enters the waking world again, opening his eyes and glancing at the red-haired volleyball player sleeping next to him.

He touches Shoyo's warm arm, shifting closer. He has no way of knowing the secret shame that L found while trespassing through dreams; if he was a better boyfriend, he'd stay right here and keep even the chaste kisses for the person he promised them to. He'd only feel invigorated and stirred by that person; he wouldn't be planning, even now, to do it again.

He's a terrible person. So is the Emperor. They both deserve this, and what Shoyo doesn't know can't hurt him. He decides such, though he doesn't manage to sleep at all for the rest of the night.]