Beyond Birthday
I love to watch him sleep. There, perched on a chair like a crouching crow, I watch. Close enough to the bed to hear even the faintest breathing, because he's so quiet when he's in Morpheus' embrace. No nightmares, no tossing and turning. He's peaceful.
He could almost look like an innocent child, with his frail frame, his dishevelled hair and the way he seems to be sucking on his thumb with this habit of his to bring this finger to his lips, even in his sleep.

But I know better...
I know the soul behind the pupils, the man with the child in his eyes is nothing more than a peaceful sailor on seas of blood...

He sometimes smiles in his sleep, and it begins.
I feel it rise in me, softly bubbling at first, in my gut, then boiling, erupting like lava in my veins, burning my brain cells to crisps, blackening my sight for an instant, before I...

So similar in appearance, I'd love the disgust in people's eyes if they saw us together. More than the fact we're both men, I'd treasure the little light of horror in the spectator's irises when they'd imagine incestuous acts in the display of our love.
Such a pity that I can't get this little treat... because everything that happens between Lawliet and me stays between those walls. Our house. Our home. The theater of something that would put Greek tragedies to shame.

He's all mine to take, when he passes the doorstep of this place and I close the nine locks securely behind us. Only him and us, the multiple me. The lover, the jailer, the torturer, the mother.
He comes on his free will, and I know he'll always come back to me, but another me feels like taking precautions. The nine locks are not an overreaction of some kind of paranoia, no...
Everything I do is calculated, evaluated, and tested.
Nine locks, all of which he knows how to open, he's L to the world, after all. Nine, because it's the amount of time taken to open unto the ninth one that I take to hear the click of the first one, cross the whole mansion, and reach the front door before the click of the ninth one resounds. He tested with me.

He's that way, completely true with me, never tricking, never teasing, never lying. He never allows himself a backdoor in our love, no matter how much I, myself, or any other me, lies, betrays and plays with him.
I guess he's aware that there's a price to pay for being his true self with me. I accept the flaws, the horrible truth about L, and he gives me Lawliet. Not that I don't make him pay for what he really is, though...
But he loves it, and comes back for more.

I once thought he still had some guilt potential in him, and that he was coming to the abusive me for some relief to his faults, like you confess and says many prayers when you've done bad things and you're a believer.
But he only believes in self satisfaction, and sugar. Both being close in the process, though.
But I saw the inner him, the psyche with the horns and the spiky tail, the soul that would scare Kira himself. I saw Lawliet. And I loved him more. And he loved me back. To death, as he says. How true will that be? Or better, when...?
He never knows, with me...

And so he smiles in his sleep. And I know.
I know the sweet dreams never altered by the horrible case he's on at the moment, because he doesn't care for details and people, he never feels empathy, he just lives on the trivia that leads to solving it.
I know the relief he feels, because he's allowed to sleep. I allow him to sleep. There's so much I have to do to keep him in shape, and I sigh at the thought I will have to wait a bit before he can take it all again.
He's becoming more resistant with time though, for my great pleasure. The last two days were quite... intense. Even I managed to come, which is saying something. He's becoming good, but still not enough, but one day...
Now?
Shall I?...

Sleep deprived. Most think it's because he works so hard... if they ever knew... he doesn't need that much time to solve a case, but he makes believe. And while he's supposedly working, locked here in what people think as a retreat to think better, I'm loving him.
With every fibre of my being, every cell of my brain, every inch of my skin, every bruise, every torment, every humiliation.

Because he's only that good, only arousing, only bringing me to the edge when he's at breaking point. You can never imagine the look in his eyes when he fights sleep away, when he tries to breathe away the pain and I'm suffocating him, when he begs me to stop with a slow blink and flashes his eyes back open to ask for more the second after, and I give him more, so much more...

The smile lingers at the corner of his mouth.
I feel tears form in my eyes. Because he's beautiful. Because it's all up to me to ravage that pretty boy, to wound him to the point Quilsh himself wouldn't recognize him, and the knowledge of cupping his whole person in the palm of my hand and being able to crush it in one pressure of my fingers is so... horrible. In a good way, that is.
And so I...

L

Every night I come back to him, and every time, as I wait for him to open the nine locks and allow me to see him again, my heart twisting and tearing with conflicting emotions of terror and hope and obsession and worship and dread, I hope that I'll change my mind and leave. And I never, never do.

I'll always come back. No matter what he says, no matter what he does, no matter who else he fucks (A, Linda, K...) for no reason other than to say that he betrayed me, I will always go back to him.

And as I crouch in my usual seated position on a chair pulled close to the bed where he reclined, naked, I pretend to be asleep for no reason other than because he likes to watch me sleep. He doesn't know it, but he's only seen me sleep twice in our entire lives. He thinks that I have sweet dreams, that I am silent when I sleep, when really, I scream, I cry, I thrash and twist up the sheets, always, always dreaming of him. When I'm around him, though, I pretend.

I'm always pretending, everywhere I go, and it's always for B. I pretend so much that I'm not sure it can even really be considered pretending, anymore. I pretend that a case will take me a week when it will take me an hour, maybe two hours, just so that I can have more free time to spend with him. I pretend to be asleep, because something about that turns him on when very few things can. I deprive myself of sleep and pretend it's insomnia, because he likes when I'm fighting to stay awake. Besides sugar, I eat only when I must eat to stay alive, because I know he likes the feeling of my frail body in his arms and the idea that he could shatter me because, after all, I would let him. I take a knife to my body and give myself scars in places only he will see to add to the ones he's given me, because he likes blood and he likes pain and he likes scars although he prefers open wounds. I pretend that I have never entertained the idea of getting away from him.

But again, in a strange way, it's only with him that I'm not pretending. With him and no one else, I never pretend that I'm not pretending. And he knows. He knows me so well; that and other things that I've never told anyone. I didn't even have to actually tell him.

He knows that I don't care for 'Justice' as some damn ideal. He's the only one who has ever been able to figure it out; that I don't take impossible cases because of some sense of nobility. I do it simply because I am bored, and because, when my mind is not occupied, it leads right back to him.

He controls me. My every thought and my every action. He allows me to come, or he prevents me. He allows me to breathe or he strangles me. He allows me to touch his body or smacks me away, twisting my arms down to pin them by my side. To kiss him, or he bites my lips so hard that they bleed. He allows me to eat when we are together- the only time I eat anything but sugar- or he starves me. He allows me to bandage myself, or he lets me bleed. He allows me to let him lead me to the bathroom, or he lets me hold it until I can't anymore and piss all over myself. He allows me to bathe, or he lets me go so long that I get a rash. And when he is done with me, he allows me to leave the next day.

Because, in the end, he is my god.

He is insane. He is violent and cruel. He is brilliant. He is manic depressive and impossible to predict. He never tires and he never sleeps. He is barely human.

But he needs me.

He'll kill me one day, probably. Until then, he needs what only I am willing to give him: someone who will always come back, who will always want him, who will always make himself believe his every little lie. Who will let himself be manipulated, beaten, tied up, torn apart, strangled, starved, degraded, humiliated, bound, whipped, slapped, cut, bruised, fucked.

More than that, though, I just love him.

I'm not even a masochist. I don't like the pain just for the sake of pain. I also don't do it to punish myself for some imagined guilt- I care nothing for Justice and Good or Evil. I wasn't abused as a child, making me seek out the same kind of sexual relationship in the future.

I am just obsessed with every inch of him, every facet of his insane, twisted existence.

And so, as usual, I pretend to be asleep, pretend to be completely oblivious as he...