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His shoes are going to get ruined. It feels as if he's barefoot, as if the soles of his feet were making direct contact with the ground as he makes his way on the little cobbled path, but then he steps on something soft and Light exhales, following the trail ahead. He thought he had forgotten how to get here, but his feet take him without any resistance.
Another exhale, then there it is. A cross. He looks down and finds a bottle in his hands. He knows there’s a corkscrew safely tucked in his jacket pocket, and he knows because he looked at the cashier at the store on the way here and realized he’d never opened a bottle of wine before.
He’s supposed to bring the wine. He barely looked at the label as he swept it from the shelf, then walked a couple steps and paused. Who used to open the bottles before? His mother? His father, surrounded by the other Adult men who were used to the main Adult who opened the bottles of wine? Light is supposed to do it now. It’s his new home. He’s an Adult now.
Right?
“I don’t even drink wine,” he mutters as he takes the corkscrew from his pocket.
The bottle feels alien in his hands. The corkscrew even moreso. His shoes dig in the grass and he startles. Grass? Wasn’t he supposed to be home?
Where is home, anyway?
“Can you believe,” he finds himself saying, “that I’m done with university now?”
L’s grave looms before him, impassive. It’s tall, taller than Light remembers. The cross is bothering him for some reason. Was L even religious?
How would Light know?
This cross doesn’t match the rest of the tombs around him. No one in this cemetery has a cross over their grave. That’s probably it. That’s why it’s bothering him.
Who cares if L was religious? Why do people put crosses over their tombs in the first place? Heaven doesn’t even exist.
The cemetery is empty, but that’s not uneventful. Rows and rows of graves surround him, simple, plain tombs with a nondescript arrangement. At least they get to have a name to remember the body that’s decaying underneath. There’s only one odd grave with a stupid cross and no name on the plaque. Light glares at the cross, the grip on the bottle growing tighter and tighter the more he just stands there. He thinks of the picture he paints: a man in his early twenties dressed in a suit, with only a bottle of wine and a corkscrew in hand.
“What am I even doing here?” He asks, but there’s no response. Of course there’s no response. He’s alone.
He’s supposed to bring the wine. They’re expecting him at his new home—his father, his mother, his sister, the Task Force, Misa… they’re all waiting to celebrate. Why do people celebrate when someone moves to a different house? What’s so important about it? Didn’t they already celebrate, anyway? What’s with the celebrations?
Light should’ve celebrated when L died. That was worth celebrating. That was worth a trip to the convenience store. He should’ve spent all his money buying party hats and cake. Lots and lots of cake. Oh, L would’ve hated to see Light eat cake at his grave. It's a pity that he didn’t think to buy some before coming here.
He should’ve celebrated his work. All the effort it took to finally bring L down, to topple over his fucking board and seize him by the heart. Light did it. He won.
Checkmate, asshole.
Funny, how he never thought to come here before. He never thought to open a bottle of wine at L’s grave, drink it all and laugh and laugh until his stomach hurt. But then, why not do that now? He already has the bottle in his hands. It’s still cold. He feels a shiver run down his spine, but it’s just the weather. The sky is grey above him, clouds tightly bound.
For a brief moment, something inside of him wishes it would rain.
Nothing happens, and it is then that Light notices he has been holding his breath. He shakes himself off it.
What was he thinking…? Oh, the wine. He’s never opened a bottle of wine before. How come he’s never done something as unremarkable as that? What if he messed it up at his shiny new apartment? He scoffs, turning the bottle in his hands. Of course he wouldn’t make a mistake. He’s never made a mistake in his life. Not a hair out of place, not a missed step. Anyone can open a bottle of wine. He doesn’t need to practice something as simple as that.
As he sinks the tip of the metal into the cork, he thinks of the screw piercing into L’s heart, twisting and twisting until he’s gasping and reaching for Light’s hands. He closes his eyes, savoring the image, knowing he will never get to taste L’s despair in such a way. It’s alright. Light is a benevolent god, after all. No need to dirty his hands. Not even for L, who probably deserved it more than anyone.
Once the corkscrew is all the way in, he pulls and pulls until the cork pops out of the bottle. His eyes find the plaque where a name should be and he bites his lower lip as he remembers the letters scribbled on Rem’s Death Note. L Lawliet. It wouldn’t have mattered if the name was written down, would it? Why keep it a secret even now?
Oh, right. Nobody else knows L’s name.
Light smiles as he thinks about his perfect victory. A part of him gloats at being the only one who gets to keep L’s secret.
He brings the bottle close. A pang of petrichor and something else, something sour. His stomach does an odd swoop, the smell bringing him violently back to the rooftop all those years ago. But that doesn’t make any sense. There was no dirt around the building, and besides, the rain was pouring by the time Light stepped outside. Still, that particular trace of rain and earth makes Light’s head spin, and before he dwells more on why that is, he takes a swig from the bottle.
Bitterness runs down his throat and he grimaces, but maybe it will be better if he takes another sip. Down it goes, burning its path. He’s mildly disappointed with the taste, but it’s not that terrible. He’s not drunk, obviously, so it’s fine if he drinks a bit more.
His eyes find the cross again, so discordant with everything around, and he smiles. Oh, to believe in a higher power. To think someone is going to pick you up and take you somewhere else. What an idiotic notion. No one came to pick up L from Light’s arms. He died and that was it. No Heaven, no Hell. Ryuk wouldn’t lie. And even then, it’s not like L would go to Heaven, anyway. If anything, he’s probably stuck here.
A thought comes to Light’s mind: wouldn’t it be funny if ghosts were real?
Light imagines L’s ghost staring at him drinking from the bottle, and laughs softly.
“Not something you expected, huh?” He taunts, swaying the bottle at L’s grave. “Look at this, L.” He takes another drink.
After that he finds that the burn in his throat is prickling at his eyes and he stops, swiping the back of his hand across his lips.
Ghosts aren’t real.
No, there’s no need to imagine something like that. Instead, Light imagines L visiting his new apartment, joining the party, and an ugly snort is pulled from him. L, in a social event? Ridiculous. L, trying to celebrate anything at all, wearing a suit? Light laughs now, thinking of L making a fool of himself at his apartment. Sticking out like a sore thumb. Just like always.
Hell, he would look terrible in a suit. All gaunt-like and pale, his hair a mess. Would he wear shoes? No, of course not. What an awful picture. Thank god he’s dead.
An image rushes into Light’s mind, uninvited. His hands, running down the lapels of L’s hypothetical suit, fixing his tie, combing his hair back.
He blinks, then the image is gone.
Well. Of course L would need Light’s help. The man probably never dressed up for anything, and Light could’ve given him some pointers. Tried to salvage what he could. That makes sense, yes.
Light takes another swig. If his stomach turns, it’s probably because of the alcohol. Maybe he should slow down. He’s never done this, after all.
He looks down at the grave and a wave of dizziness takes him by surprise. Yes, he should slow down.
Light lowers himself slowly, knees wobbly as he sits down on the floor. He spares a thought for his suit and finds that he doesn’t really care if it’s a little ruined. Why should it matter, anyway?
He smiles at the grave, and despite his earlier resistance, he imagines a ghost version of L sneering at him. “Hello,” Light says. He waves his hand at the grave, then bursts out laughing.
“L, did you know?” He continues, giddy. “I won. You’re dead.”
He bites his lip to keep from smiling, but he’s not very successful. The hand holding the bottle raises in the air, as if signaling a toast.
“Cheers,” he says in English, then takes the bottle to his lips. He’s cautious now, taking just a little sip. No more.
“I won,” he repeats, softer now. His hand shakes as he touches the slab. It’s cold. L was always cold. Or so Light believes. He never actually touched L. Not enough to be able to tell, anyway.
Why does that even matter? Light is here, and L is not, and that’s a good thing. He’s dead and that’s good, that’s what Light always wanted, that’s what he worked so hard for, so then…
So then what? He’s fine. This is fine. His lips find the bottle again and he feels like throwing up, hands blurry as they sink in the grass, and where is the bottle? Did he throw it…? Maybe that’s better. He’s not that used to alcohol, after all. That’s all this is. He’s never been drunk.
At least no one else has to witness this. Not even L, since he’s dead. Dead and gone. Never to return. Which is good, it’s great. Light doesn’t have to listen to his boring voice and his stupid words and wonder what the hell is going on in his head anymore. He doesn’t have to think three steps ahead because there’s no one there to watch him anymore. Which is great, obviously. He’s won. This is what winning means. No obstacles anymore.
But… Without obstacles life is getting boring again. His days consist of going to school, drone out the boring professors with their subpar knowledge, and get home to write names. Pretend to try to catch Kira. Write more names. Write and write and write. Rinse and repeat.
He pats himself on the back when he sees all the numbers pointing out the crime rate going down—he often finds the urge to turn and show L, prove that Kira is actually doing good for the world, and hear him acknowledge it. L should’ve been able to see this. He would’ve understood eventually.
God, what is he even thinking? This must be the alcohol talking.
“You would’ve never accepted defeat,” he mumbles, staring down at the cold slab. “Even if the evidence stared right at you… You hated me so much you would’ve never yielded.”
He’s surprised by the bitterness in his voice. Did he actually want L’s acceptance? No, of course not. But a good enemy should know when to bow down and retire, which L never did. That’s the reason he’s below ground now—his own stupid ego. His arrogance, his stupid pride and his horrible mind. He was such a horrible man. Horrible, terrible, despicable. Evil. Light was only trying to help the world, and L twisted everything so bad that everyone agreed with him. Because he had the power to make them agree with him. He was never right. He was never justice. He was just another lonely man, in his lonely throne, looking down at people who dared live their lives.
What could he have possibly known about the world’s struggles? About the way crime impacted so many lives? He saw everything as numbers, as detached as humanly possible. He’s only proven to have a heart because it stopped, but Light doubts L cared about anyone. He was probably not even capable of that.
Perhaps that’s why he was so good at his job, though… Light has often wondered if maybe he cared a little less… Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard. He wouldn’t wake up in a cold sweat most nights. He wouldn’t think about the blood in his hands and the weight of the mission he’s embarked in. But no, that only makes him stronger. His mind is sharp, better than L’s ever was. Light is the only one who could do this, he’s known since the start.
But… There was something so thrilling about having someone meet him pace by pace. Someone that anticipated his attacks and surprised him with their own. Someone that understood; someone that looked at him for what he was and acknowledged him as a true equal. The only one. The best enemy he could’ve hoped for.
Hell, it’s so frustrating to be alone. L must’ve been insane, truly out of his mind with boredom before Light brought him something special. Why couldn’t they stay in their own world? Why did one of them have to die?
The bottle is resting against the slab. Thankfully nothing has fallen over it, which Light doesn’t particularly care for, other than the fact he’d rather not leave any marks. He thinks about grabbing it, but then chastises himself for it, annoyed that he’s drawn to it even after acknowledging how bad it’s making him feel.
He’s having trouble breathing, for one thing. And his vision is still blurry no matter how much he scrubs at his eyes to clear them up. Something burns in his sternum, and the nausea hasn’t really left at all.
Why do people drink alcohol?
“Did you ever drink?” He asks the cold piece of marble before him, with no response. “You probably didn’t like it, did you? Since you had a sweet tooth–”
He chokes suddenly, hunching over himself. A fierce surge of pain seizes him completely, leaving him in shock. What even was in that bottle…?
Has there ever been a point where you’ve told the truth?
Light hugs himself, closing his eyes tightly. There’s no need to think about this anymore, really. Why is he even here? He should be gloating, and he’s not… This is not…
The truth… The truth is, he’s bored. That’s all there is to it. He’s bored because his life is boring because he’s killed the only thing that made it interesting. But he had to. There was no other way. L was the only obstacle in his path, the only one who could… Oh, but he was the only one worth his effort, the only one good enough to keep him on his toes… The only one with a wonderful mind to talk to, to–
No. Everyone is so boring. That’s it. There’s nothing that can challenge him anymore. It’s alright to mourn the thrill, the game. That’s all this is.
He laughs softly, as though he weren’t alone. He pretends L’s ghost sneers at him, and suddenly his skin itches and he finds himself thinking of the bottle, wondering if maybe this is just another side effect.
“I think I miss you sometimes,” he finds himself saying. “I miss having someone to talk to.”
What is he saying?
Somehow he feels like he’s being watched, but when he turns, there’s no one around. His heart speeds up, wondering if someone heard him say something as stupid as that. He thinks of the party, people flocking to him, congratulating him for leaving the nest, and feels sick. He would have to say something important, right? A speech, maybe. What would L have said, if he were there?
Light thinks of L wearing a suit again, and in his mind Light reaches out to fix L’s tie, but now L’s hand reaches out for him and… and…
He shuts his eyes, covering his face with his hands. What the fuck is wrong with him? Nothing like that ever happened, and it won’t ever happen because L is ten feet below ground. He’s gone. Light doesn’t miss him.
“No,” he says, eyes still closed. “I don’t miss you.” He looks up at the sky, but Heaven doesn’t exist. “Did you know, L,” he continues, “that people don't necessarily tell the truth when they're drunk? Some studies show that a latent part of the brain can activate under the influence of alcohol, which doesn’t necessarily mean they’re being sincere. People used to think only drunks and children told the truth, but that’s not quite true, is it? But of course you must've known that. You already knew everything, didn't you?
“You knew I was Kira, even when I didn’t,” he adds bitterly, looking back down.
He stomps down the disappointment when he’s only greeted with the stupid, insipid grave. Ghosts aren’t real. There’s no way to bring someone back from the dead. L died in Light’s arms—he felt the way his body stopped being a living, breathing being, turning into a rigid, cold thing. What is he expecting? That L rises from the earth to chase him down, rotting bones and all?
He tries to laugh again, but a sob comes out instead. No, this should not be happening. He shouldn’t miss L like this, like a broken bone that can’t fit back into place. This was for the better. L had to die. He had to. He would’ve killed Light the moment he had proof he’s Kira. He never cared about Light, he was always condescending and mean and… and…
Fuck, why is this so painful? It’s like it’s amplified—every single cell in his body is more sensitive and weak, and he’s crying now, tears of rage that cage his sobs in his throat as he punches down on the ground, angry beyond his comprehension.
“I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” He yells, stomach tight and head stuffed with cotton. “I have hated you ever since you made a fool of myself, every cell in my body has dreamed of your demise and I did it, I killed you. I got rid of you. You’re gone, you’re never coming back. You will never come back!”
His laugh sounds wrong, but he still laughs, pushing through the way his body burns all over. He tears off the grass from the ground as he tries to sit back up, but he trips and falls. A wave of self-loathing comes out of nowhere, and he spits out nonsense while he lies down next to the grave, choking out sobs as he writhes in the ground.
It’s getting harder to breathe. Light pushes the heel of his hands into his eyes, willing his body to obey him and calm down, but he can’t stop the gnawing at the corners of his heart, the bleeding inside. It hurts. His chest burns. Then, he opens his eyes. He stares at the sky. Still grey.
Will it rain?
He turns slowly to the side, curling on himself as he glares at the slab.
“You can never leave me alone, can you? You’re like a parasite, clinging to places you were never meant to touch, growing and festering into things out of my control. Eating me alive. Even in death.”
No, that’s not true. No, he’s lying, because he’s a liar, and he lies all the time. Even L knew it. He said so, didn’t he?
Has there ever been a point where you’ve told the truth?
Stupid, horrible man. Brilliant, despicable being. Light is almost as old as L was when the Kira case began, and he’s ten times the man L could ever hope to be.
He covers his face with his hands, and he’s probably covered in dirt now, isn’t he? How is he going to go back home like this?
Home… Where is that?
“I had to do it,” he mumbles against his hands. “You understand that, don’t you? You were going to kill me.”
He feels tiny, and if he had a better sense of self, he would snap himself out of it, regain some dignity, but now that he’s fallen he doesn’t know how to get back up.
“Self defense is a justifiable use of force in any criminal case,” he continues. “I was protecting my life, any sane person would agree. You would agree, wouldn’t you?”
He feels the tears running down his face and he hates himself for this, for being so weak and stupid and pathetic.
“I didn’t even do it,” he confesses, pain stuck in his throat. “It wasn’t me. It was Rem. The shinigami, remember? She wrote your name. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill you. And she wouldn’t have done it if you weren’t so fucking persistent! You brought this to yourself!” He tries to sit up, but he’s too dizzy, so he just sways back down.
“You think I wanted things to go this way? I only wanted… I thought…”
No. Stop.
“If only you trusted me, if you let me be close to you… I wanted to be close to you, fuck.” He drags his hand down his face, fighting the urge to dig his nails and open up the skin, ruin his fucking face.
“Would you have let me?” He whispers. He shakes his head as he laughs bitterly. His brain hurts. “No, of course not. You would’ve never let anyone touch you, right? The king in his ivory tower, away from us peasants,” he spits the word out as if it’s venom. “God, I hate you. No one would ever want to touch you anyway. You were so disgusting, so weird and ugly. You probably died a virgin, right?” He tries to laugh, but he only chokes—but it’s the loathing that’s making him act like this, the hatred that runs in his veins and turns his blood into poison. He’s allowed to do this. Only him.
He then has a horrible thought. “Unless…” His nails dig in his palm, hard enough to draw blood. “Did you ever sleep with someone? No, you couldn’t– You were always alone. You never– No.”
It occurs to him then that he doesn’t really know anything about L’s life. A stone digs deep inside his chest and he feels like tearing off his hair. Did L have a lover? Is that something he should be looking into? What if he left someone behind, someone like Naomi Misora, smart and beautiful and ready to burn the earth to avenge her lover?
Jealousy sinks in his gut, an ugly feeling that spreads down like lead and suffocates him. No. No. Please. If anyone like that existed, if L somehow left someone behind that could potentially miss him, Light would’ve run into them by now. It’s been four years. Either that, or that person is a stupid, insignificant thing that isn’t even worthy of his time.
It doesn’t matter. Sure, Light doesn’t know enough about L’s life, but he knows this: that man never loved anyone. He was too cold, too distant. Even with Misa—who, Light has to admit, is what society considers “attractive”—he only made jokes, meant to rile Light up. It was always about Light. L didn’t care about anyone else. Which is why…
What point is there in that, now? L is dead. Light will never be close to him. Which, again, it’s a good thing. It’s the way things were meant to be. Sacrifices must be made for the betterment of society. A building can be built only after tearing down an old one. And Light has done good. The world is better now. He’s even doing more work for the world considering he’s also doing L’s part, posing as him and taking over his work. He’s solving the cases L would take if he were still alive.
Light gets to be with him, in a way.
Right?
Fuck, what the hell is wrong with him? He tries to scream, but only a pitiful, silent croak leaves his lips. He’s so pathetic, god. He shouldn’t be feeling like this—he shouldn’t be acting like this. No one should ever get to see him like this. L would laugh at him, wouldn’t he? He’d be having the time of his life to see Light in this state. To know he broke through the barrier, despite all the resistance. That even though he’s dead and gone, Light still carries him around. Like a curse.
He wants to scrub away this feeling, scratch his skin off and take it away. His heart feels heavy and he can’t stop crying now. Maybe if Light had killed him with his bare hands, L would get to haunt him. Is that how it works? Only Rem did it, and Rem is also gone, and there’s no way for either of them to come back. Not that Light wants either of them back.
Is he truly alone? Is there really no one to talk to anymore? Where is Ryuk, anyway?
Where is everyone?
Misa… Ryuk…
He’s so lonely.
“Are you happy now?” He whispers against the ground. “You ruined me. You did it, you horrible, terrible–”
He tries to sit up, but a sharp needle pierces through his brain, making him go back down. He’s going to get sick. His vision is blurry and his face feels all stuffy and wrong and he can’t even scream to get help, he’s alone in the world and L is laughing at him. L in his ivory tower. But he’s not up anymore, he’s down. He’s down in the ground being eaten by maggots and Light will never get to touch him or hold him or… or…
His fingers close around the neck of the bottle and it’s cold, inviting. He wobbles up, enough to take another drink, and it burns again when he swallows, but he welcomes the sensation. When he presses his lips to the bottle’s mouth, he wonders if L’s lips would’ve been cold. He was always cold. Light could’ve warmed him up.
Yes, he would’ve made that sacrifice. Another way to atone for his sins. He would’ve tried to make L see, make him understand… His body as an offering. L wouldn’t have turned him down. No one ever turns him down. L would’ve kissed him back. Why did he never try…?
This time, the swig is longer, and he wishes the burn would carve him open instead. He imagines L running his hands down his chest, pushing him against the wall. He was strong. Light would’ve let himself be pushed around, just to feel him again, to have him press his lips against his neck, his fingers circle his wrists, pushing Light’s shirt up with the other hand. He thinks of the party, his family in the other room, but they would never know about the stolen kisses, the teeth and breath and sweat. They wouldn’t know about L running his fingers down Light’s hair, the taste in his tongue, because they would keep it a secret. Light is good at keeping secrets. L was, too.
He tastes salt and opens his eyes, heart pounding.
There’s no one. Nothing. Just a cross, mocking him as he drinks himself to oblivion.
It’s not like Light knows what having L like that feels like, either. He’s suddenly disgusted with himself and throws the bottle away, wishing it could crash against the marble, but it only rolls away, liquid pitifully leaking down on the grass.
He’s shaking. He can feel that much. His hands dig in the grass and it’s all he can do not to topple over and drown. He’s not feeling well. His chest is carved open, heart exposed, and it burns. He wants to scratch it off, pull it out of him, break it apart with his hands and his nails and his teeth. Light wants to scream, but he has no voice anymore. What happened to his voice? What is happening to him?
He lies back down on the grass, heart thumping in his temple, and then he feels it.
A hand.
Pressing down on his shoulder.
“L…?” He gasps, looking up.
The sky is no longer grey. It’s dark, darker now. How…?
“Light,” the man before him says, grip on his shoulder tight like a vice. “Light, what happened?”
“L…” Light sobs, throwing his arms around him, but it’s wrong. The hug is welcomed, and it’s warm and soft and safe, but once Light hides his face in the man’s chest, he realizes who it is.
“Dad…?”
“What happened?” Soichiro asks again, holding him fiercely. “Light, this…”
A bucket of ice runs down his back and he pushes himself off his father, dizzy and terrified, but no, Light was alone when he turned. How would anyone even find him? Why his father?
He feels the world tilting and then his father’s arms seize him again, this time with the awkward touch from rejection. Light bristles, almost as if he’s a feral animal that needs to run for his life, but he can barely move. When he tries to stand, his head thumps viciously, and he wants to snarl and push his father away, because he can’t be real, this can’t be happening. This wasn’t even meant to happen, he wasn’t supposed to break at the seams and have all the ugly, disgusting things spill outside. Worse yet, no one was meant to witness it, let alone his father. No. No, no, no, no, no. Not happening. Not real.
He tries to swallow his tears and stand up straight, but his father’s gaze pierces him and he crumbles, upset with himself and with L because this is his fault too, this wouldn’t have happened if not for that stupid man and now Soichiro has to see Light in this state, a state he should’ve never been caught alive in and… and now his dad holds him against his chest again and Light is vaguely aware that he’s sobbing and please make this stop, please make–
“I’m fine,” Light says, pushing his father away. He wipes at his face harshly, heart in his throat. He hates this feeling, almost as if he’s been caught with something naughty in his hands—but that would be better than this… better than…
He shuts his eyes and breathes. If he focuses, he’d be able to stand. He’s not drunk. He’s fine.
“Sorry, I couldn’t find the wine.” Light mumbles.
When he opens his eyes, there’s a myriad of emotions on his father’s face. It’s interesting—Light doesn’t think he’s ever seen his father at a loss. Well, there’s always a first time for everything, right?
Soichiro’s gaze falls on the bottle next to them, but thankfully he doesn’t comment on it. There’s a brief second where he looks into Light’s eyes, seemingly searching for something, but Light averts his gaze and dusts himself off. He pretends his skin doesn’t itch and he doesn’t feel like throwing up.
Then, like a switch turning off, Soichiro stands, offering Light his hand. “Let’s go.” He says.
I don’t want to go, Light thinks, but doesn’t say, heart bleeding as he takes his father’s hand. Please leave me here.
He doesn’t turn back to look at L’s grave. It’s better like this, anyway.
His fingers shake as he fastens the seatbelt around him, then his father enters the car and slams the door shut. Maybe he didn’t slam it. Maybe it’s just one of those side effects of drinking, where everything seems to be amplified and Light is suspiciously sensitive to the world. There’s no reason for Soichiro to be upset, after all.
Well. It’s not like he can read Light’s mind anyway, so there’s nothing to worry about. Right?
He sits in the car as his father stares at the wheel. He hasn’t started the car yet. What is he waiting for?
Light crosses his arms and stares out the window. The cemetery’s entrance is simple, dull. White walls and a fountain outside. There’s nothing special—not crosses or arrangements or even a gate to keep it locked inside. What if the ghosts escape…?
No. Ghosts aren’t real.
The soft hum of the engine brings Light back into awareness, his father finally deciding to turn on the car. Neither of them say a word.
It’s quiet, too quiet—the kind of quiet someone wants to drown with noise, but somehow the idea of turning on the radio feels worse. Light’s head throbs and his skin itches and he feels exposed raw, like his father can see his guts and is disgusted by what he sees. You made me, Light thinks suddenly, and wonders what that’s like. To have your only son disgrace himself.
Soichiro is still as a stone as he maneuvers the car, and Light suddenly feels like he will throw up. Why hasn’t he said anything? Should Light apologize? He made everyone wait, didn’t he? All the guests in his new home… His new life as an Adult. Is Soichiro disappointed by that, or by realizing his son drank himself stupid in front of his former boss’ grave?
He hasn’t asked for an explanation. Not yet, anyway. What is Light supposed to answer, when he does? Will he ask? God, the itchiness has grown worse. Light wants to take off his skin and disappear. Jump off the car. Anything to escape this suffocating silence, this stain on his soul, the one only his father can see, the one nobody was supposed to find out.
For a wild moment, Light considers blurting out he’s Kira, just to have the mood change to something more bearable than this.
Suddenly, like he can’t help it anymore either, Soichiro speaks. “He’s not in there.”
“What?” Light asks, turning back to look at his father.
“Ryuzaki,” Soichiro clarifies. “His body. It isn’t there.”
“What do you mean it isn’t there? What?” Light asks, completely stunned. The words don’t make sense. What is his father saying?
“He was cremated,” Soichiro continues, voice quiet. His eyes are fixed on the road, while Light finds it hard to breathe for some reason. “You were not supposed to know.”
Silence. Light slowly turns to the road ahead. The world is blurring around him, buildings dissolving and lights dimming until he’s sure he will be swallowed into the darkness. He doesn’t understand. He tries to run the words through his head again, but they make no sense when he does. He must be truly drunk, because he’s never felt this slow before. His chest burns and his brain throbs and that must be a lie. His father is lying to him. Why would he do that? Is he that upset with Light? Maybe he’s saying this so Light doesn’t return to the grave. That must be it. Light was there when the body was lowered, not even 24 hours after L’s passing. His body is there. It has to be.
“I don’t think I follow,” Light mumbles. “Why are you saying this?”
“Because it’s true,” Soichiro says. “He asked me to keep it from you.”
Light frowns, words even more confusing than before. “From the grave…?”
When would L even have time to talk to his father? Light doubts L thought he would actually die during the investigation. At the beginning, at least. Maybe once he learned of the Death Note… but still.
Light always knew where he was at all times. Mostly because they were chained to the other, but that still adds to his point.
Though that's not quite true, is it?
He thinks of L standing under the rain… No. No, his father has to be lying.
He has to.
“I’m sorry, Light,” Soichiro says instead of answering. “I understand you two grew close during the investigation and—no. I do not understand, actually.” Light freezes. “He wasn’t your friend. You were his prime suspect, Light. He never cared about you.”
It feels like a slap. Light sobers up immediately, blood running cold in his veins. The words echo inside his head and he thinks of L. L, who somehow hated him enough to devise a plan to make a fool out of Light. Beyond the grave. Well, that's not applicable anymore, is it?
No. His father is lying to him. He never approved of the way Light kept close to L. He must’ve known, like parents often do, of Light’s true feelings regarding the detective. That’s it, isn’t it? His father not approving of the disgusting feelings Light has never wanted. His father seeing through him and hurting him like this to set him back straight. That’s all this is.
“Why would you cry for him? Even now…” Soichiro continues, voice quiet again. “He was a brilliant man, with a brilliant mind, but he wasn’t your friend, Light. He wasn’t even a nice person.”
He has to be lying.
“We lowered his body in that place,” Light says, voice tight.
“It wasn’t his body.”
“Then who–”
“There’s nothing there,” Soichiro says, final. Somehow, Light knows then that he’s telling the truth. “You were not supposed to know,” he adds as an afterthought.
“You already said that,” Light bites. The sourness in his voice is hard to conceal.
“He asked me to keep it from everyone,” says Soichiro, as if he’s trying to excuse himself now. “Nobody else knows.”
Light thinks of L’s ghost laughing at him, somewhere Light can’t ever reach him.
But ghosts aren’t real.
“And so… you just did it? You agreed to that?”
He’s trembling again, so he crosses his arms tighter around himself. He thinks of L coming up with a plan to escape Japan, to escape Light, and his stomach churns.
He knew he would die…
“Why?” Light whispers. Ice runs through his veins. “First you shoot me, then you do this for him. Why is he more important to you than your own son?”
His voice is quiet. He’s not going to explode over this.
“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” his father says, as if he just didn’t carve open a hole in Light’s chest. That’s what does it, his indifference, not the idea of L’s body being gone.
Light bursts out laughing, pain lacerating his insides.
“Oh, we shouldn’t!” He feels tears at the corner of his eyes and he scrubs at his face furiously. “We shouldn’t! You believed a man you’ve barely met that I was a killer and you shot me at his command! He asked you to dispose of his body without me knowing and you did it!”
“I went along with his plan to clear you of suspicion–”
“And he chained me to himself instead!” He laughs again, but the laugh sounds wet even to his own ears. He fights the urge to take over the wheel and careen the car into the nothingness. Would L welcome him in the afterlife?
Oh, but how silly of him.
Heaven doesn’t exist.
He sobers up. “Where is he?”
Where are his ashes? Did his father scatter them somewhere? Where?
“I can’t tell you,” his father answers.
For the first time ever, Light’s hand itches for his pen.
He thought he wanted L dead and gone, but it’s nothing compared to the anger he feels now. The hatred, the scorn. He’s surprised by the sheer force of it. He looks at his father now, tired and worn, and Light wonders suddenly how long he’s been looking for him. If he was worried Kira took him. Did he hurry through the streets, wondering if his son was still alive? Why would he think to look in the graveyard?
There’s a war inside him, hatred and pain and embarrassment all tumbling over each other as he considers what to do. He’s not going to kill his father. That’s not who he is. And in truth, he loves him. Soichiro is an honorable man. A good man. He was following orders, like so many do. Light knows this, just as he knows Soichiro would never agree with his view of the world. Of the feelings he keeps locked inside. Even now, his father thinks he was doing the best for Light, only it never was.
One thing is certain, though: he needs to find L. There’s no way things stay like this. No way L gets the last word in. No. No. This is Light’s win, and he’ll be damned if he lets L have the last move in this dance.
“Tell me where he is,” Light orders, voice calm.
So what if L never wanted him? So what if he longed to escape the serial killer that slept chained to him? Light will get to have him. Light will win this, he will take him and keep him. He’ll make a space in his brand new home just for him. A shrine, if only to make his father more disgusted. Who fucking cares at this point.
“I told you, I can’t,” Soichiro says again, eyes still glued to the road. How much longer until they arrive and they both have to act like this conversation never happened?
“Dad–”
“I don’t know where the ashes are,” he cuts Light off. “I was given instructions to take them to one place, but they’re no longer there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he said that’s how it would be.”
His nails dig deep in his palm and he bites his tongue to keep from screaming. Calm down. Breathe. He won’t get his way like that.
He needs this information.
“Where did you take them?” Light’s voice is quiet but firm. He won’t push too much, lest his father becomes wary.
“Why do you want to know?” Soichiro asks, tired. “It won’t make a difference.”
He never cared about you.
“Just tell me.” He reaches for his father’s hand on the steering wheel and retracts his own before touching him. A calculated move, enough for him to see. “Please,” he adds softly.
A beat. Then another. The car grows quiet again. Light holds his breath.
Soichiro shakes his head. “This isn’t good for you, Light. It’s been four years.”
“I know,” Light says, easy. He’s itching to pull the answer out from his father’s throat, but he can’t mess this up.
They reach a red light, and finally Soichiro turns to him.
Light tries to look as calm as possible, staring back into his father’s eyes, but it seems to have the opposite effect. His father’s face clouds with something, and he frowns as he looks away from him. It feels like rejection. It seeps into Light’s bones, leaving him cold.
“I shouldn’t have told you this,” Soichiro mutters as he steps on the accelerator. “He didn’t want you to know.”
And like the perfect soldier, his father shuts up.
Great job, L. You sure know how to pick your guards.
Then, like a light breaking through the fog, Light gets it.
And it makes perfect sense, really. He should’ve seen this coming.
His father is an honorable man. The only man L probably trusted in the Task Force, other than Watari. He would never break a vow. And L must’ve made him make one. Swear on his life.
L would know… He would know the moment Light knew he was lied to, he would try to find out the truth. And so he made sure his secret would disappear with him, giving the crucial information to the one person Light can’t break.
But L must’ve known that, no matter the obstacles, Light would claw his way to the truth. Must’ve been expecting it.
His heart thumps wildly inside his chest. This must be it. L was thinking of him before he passed, when he made this plan. He wanted Light to find him.
He never cared about you.
But he did. He did! L cared about Light. He knew Light would be the only one who could find him… That’s why he said Light was the only one who deserved to be the next L—he knew no one else would be able to chase him beyond death.
The more he thinks about it, the more it fits into place. L knew Light’s the only one smart enough to find him… And so he left him this.
A farewell gift. The last challenge for Light to occupy himself with.
A way to be with him, even after death.
Who would’ve thought L could be this considerate?
He’s shaking again. Could it be possible?
Yes. Of course it is. L wanted Light to find him. Light is the only one who can find him. He will find him.
He bites his lower lip, energy thrumming inside him. L’s ghost smiles at him.
Light smiles back.
The world won’t be boring again.
They’ll be together.
“Light?” Soichiro asks softly, and it is then that Light realizes they’ve arrived.
Where would he keep the ashes? Maybe he could turn them into a ring, keep it on himself at all times.
He would probably have to propose to Misa, then, right?
Who cares? The possibilities expand before him, leaving him reeling.
He’ll get to be with him.
“I’m coming,” he says, then steps out of the car.
Soon, he thinks. Soon you’ll be mine.
It’s only a matter of time.