Loveless/Deathnote, "Artistic Expression," L & Kio, PG
Odd how the muses work, sometimes. I wrote a Loveless/Deathnote crossover for wicked_pistil awhile back, and today my muses just really wanted me to do it again, so here it is. It's based off of my understanding of the Deathnote manga, which goes something like this ...
Deathgods may kill in order to protect a human from death, at cost of the Deathgod's life. In Deathnote, Rem uses that rule to kill Watari, in order to protect Misa-chan. According to the rules set up in the canon, this means Rem is now a pile of sand and cannot kill anyone else.
So L really shouldn't be dead.
What I think-and this, by the way, would be an excellent escape route for the mangaka, should he decide he wants to make more stories based off of L-is that Watari is the last line of defense, is L's canary-in-the-mineshaft, and that once he dies, a trigger is set off in L that puts him in a comatose state. He is declared dead by his organization and released from service, too much of a security risk to be useful to them anymore.
In this universe, he has been released and put into therapy, under constant surveillance, because you can't just set someone like L free on the world in his current state. He needs to learn to be a human again, not simply a tool.
That said, the fic itself is not spoilerific. Dedicated to silver_sweet, whom I miss like you would not believe, it's PG for fluff and utter ... calm, I suppose. Give it a read and see what you think. And as always, you know I want comments, so if you read it, drop me a note to tell me what you thought of it.
'Tis all!
Artistic Expression
by Mistr3ss Quickly
Soubi had tried Kio’s patience hundreds of times. Thousands of times. Innumerable times, even, to the point that calling it "daily" wouldn’t be far off the mark, save that Soubi hadn’t always bothered to grace his admirer-the only friend he’d ever had who'd not wanted him as a thing, rather than as a person-with his presence regularly enough for the term to stick.
Kio was good at being patient.
Kneeling on the soft carpet of an apartment designed more like a hotel room than a home, he smiled quietly at the dark-haired man across from him-Ryuuzaki, the doctors had called him upon Kio's first introduction-drawing a steadying breath under the other’s unnervingly penetrating gaze. Odd though this job seemed to him, Kio knew that it was unbelievable luck for an artist to find work immediately after graduation, and to find a job that paid well and covered living expenses in addition to a cushy salary was practically unheard of.
A little discomfort on the job was no big deal, really, considering.
"In answer to your question," he said, slowly, "I suppose that there is no real concrete reason to create art, not so far as you’ve defined ‘reason,’ but all the same, it’s good to create. Good for the mind and soul alike, and what’s good for the mind is good for the body."
Ryuuzaki L cocked his head, the movement brushing his thick dark hair against one of his knees, which were pulled up, almost to his chest. "Your argument is sound enough, but I do not seem to be suffering any ill effect from lack of activities involving artistic expression," he said. "Why change now, when there is no ailment to be remedied?"
Kio stifled a sigh. The doctors in charge of briefing him had explained the patient’s condition to him, had strictly ordered him not to try any home-brew psychotherapy on the man. Severe paranoia, mixed with a brilliant mind and a devastating sense of loss and displacement, they’d said, made this man both sullen and conversational, curious and cynical, his desire to be useful conflicting with his feelings of powerlessness.
A conundrum, one doctor said. A walking contradiction.
And, apparently, art was the solution. With soft European classical music playing in the background and shelves lining the walls, stocked with paints and papers and brushes and pencils and pigments, Kio had been hired to spend time with this eccentric man, engaging him in conversation and-hopefully-teaching him to express himself creatively in whatever ways possible.
It was much harder, in practice, than Kio had initially thought it would be.
"I guess that’s true," he said, shrugging. "But by the same argument, I don’t think you’re going to suffer any ill effects from giving art a try, either."
"Hmm," said L. "An interesting argument."
"Will you give it a try, then?" said Kio, optimistically.
But L shook his head, dark eyes never leaving Kio’s.
"I will observe you, first," he said, carefully, his bare toes wiggling against the soft carpeting. "It is best to understand before attempting to duplicate."
Kio sighed. "Fair enough," he said.
Under the other’s ever-constant gaze, he rose and stretched, padding almost soundlessly-just like a cat, Sou-chan, you’d love the carpet here-over to the shelves on the wall, frowning as he selected a large art pad and a graphite pencil, grabbing an eraser and a red color-pencil as well, as an afterthought. He returned to his spot on the floor and sat, one leg folded in front of him and the other up, beside him, almost a mirror of his companion, color-pencil and eraser resting just to the side his knee as he opened the pad of paper.
Then he began to draw.
He’d never personally known anyone with a mental illness, before, save for his grandmother, who had suffered from senile dementia towards the end of her life. Despite the doctors’ assurances that Ryuuzaki would display no violent tendencies, that any topic was safe for discussion, really-you’ll know if you’ve hit a nerve, he’ll just clam up and refuse to talk-Kio felt apprehension tugging at his chest as he began to draw, praying that he’d not upset his companion, not on their first day working together, at least. Tongue-tip caught between his teeth, he frowned and began to sketch lightly, pencil-lead whispering across the thick paper.
An oval for the head; lines where the eyes and nose would be.
Two almond-shaped eyes, sketchy and not quite to his liking; eyelashes and shading helping to even them out.
One long, tricky line, drawn beneath the shadow of the nose; shading to make it look like a mouth.
"The likeness to a real individual is striking," said L, hovering close enough to Kio that Kio jumped, heart pounding in surprise. "This is an acquaintance?"
"Yeah," said Kio, breathing hard and trying to argue his heart back into his chest, out of his throat where he was certain it had leapt at L’s sudden appearance beside him, rather than across from him. "That’s Soubi, my Sou-chan. He was my roommate, at University."
"I see," said L, dark eyes moving from the paper to Kio’s face, then back again, head cocked to the side. "A familiar study, then."
Kio shrugged and returned to sketching, shading Soubi’s eyelids, smudging the graphite on Soubi’s cheeks with the pad of his thumb, highlighting the beautiful cheekbones he’d so often kissed, then later longed to kiss, watching the blonde from a distance.
"He was an art major, like me," he said, defining Soubi’s long, elegant chin, sketching the curve of one graceful ear, "so he was often my model. I’d just draw him while he painted, since we shared a studio."
"I see," said L. "Interesting."
"Mmm," said Kio. He shaded Soubi’s eyes, dark and soulful and beautiful, especially without the spectacles the older man had taken to wearing, just months after Seimei’s death. "I loved him a lot, actually. Loved to draw him, loved to paint him. Loved just being around him, you know?"
L stiffened. "Yes," he said, quietly.
"He didn’t feel the same about me, though," continued Kio, arm moving more fluidly as he drew Soubi’s long hair, flowing conveniently over the lobe of Soubi’s ear, concealing the piercing he’d so strongly resented seeing, every time Soubi had come around, battered and bruised and glowing. "He had a boyfriend who died, then later decided that it’d be better to date with his boyfriend’s younger brother than to date with me, even though the brother was way too young to be dating with anybody. That’s how I understood it, anyway. Really made me mad."
Soubi’s hair was finished, long and wild, as though Soubi were standing by the window on a stormy evening, watching the rain pelt down on the city beyond the warmth and safety of their little studio. Kio cocked his head and squinted as he drew the curve of Soubi’s neck, shading the hollow of the man’s throat with the pad of his thumb and frowning when he couldn’t get it to look right, no matter how hard he tried.
He stole a glance at L’s throat, shaded the hollow a bit higher, and nodded, satisfied.
L watched him, chewing absently at the pad of his own thumb, leaning closer when Kio exchanged his sketching pencil for the color-pencil, adding just the slightest blush to Soubi’s lips, then to the highlights of his cheeks.
Soubi smiled. Kio sighed.
"There," he said. "How’s that?"
"Curious," said L, slowly, "that you borrow my throat for a drawing of your common study."
"Oh, that," said Kio. "Sou-chan always wore bandages around his neck to cover a scar his first boyfriend gave him. Nasty big thing, covered his whole throat. I didn’t mind it, always wanted him to take off the bandages, but he refused, so I refuse to draw them on there."
L hmm’d softly. "You refuse to draw the scar as well?" he said.
Kio nodded. "That’s right," he said. "Your neck looks good on him anyway, though, don’t you think?"
L didn’t answer, head cocked to the side, once again. "You are very honest," he observed.
"I try," said Kio, shrugging. "Only lie when I’m trying to keep birthday presents a surprise or when I’m being sarcastic, usually."
"Hmm," said L. "Interesting."
Then he rose and disappeared from the room, leaving Kio to sigh and put away the paper and pencils, the drawing forgotten in the middle of the floor.
~*♥*~*♥*~*♥*~
By the end of the first week, hands and face smudged with graphite, Kio was feeling both exhilarated and exhausted, having created a considerable stack of sketches, some better than others, with L by his side, a quiet, comforting presence.
L himself still hadn’t drawn a single line, but had watched intently while Kio drew, commenting every so often, asking questions about Kio’s life, about Soubi and the other artists with whom Kio had worked. The topic of Soubi was their most common, L's dark eyes drawn away from Kio's hands whenever Soubi's name was mentioned, returning to Kio's artwork only when the conversation had moved on. Each day, they would take a break at three o'clock, L rising just before the clock chimed, silently disappearing into the back of the apartment, returning with tea and cookies once Kio had stretched and washed his hands, waiting patiently on the sofa.
"Guess you can probably see why I think everyone should try drawing, huh?" said Kio, dipping his head in thanks as he took the cup L offered him. "I really love it. It’s fun."
L blinked at him, watched Kio close his eyes as the steam wafted up from his cup, tickling his face.
"Perhaps," he said, settling at the opposite end of the sofa with his own cup of tea, carefully stirring first two sugar cubes, then three, into the steaming liquid. "Your art is similar to a cup of tea."
"Really?" said Kio. "How so?"
L sipped his tea, then reached for the sugar bowl, capturing two more cubes, one between his index and middle fingers, the other between his middle and ring fingers. He held the cubes up for Kio to see, then dropped them into his tea, holding out his cup so that Kio could watch them dissolve.
"Your art," he said, "is not at all fun, as you’ve suggested, nor is it something loved. It is similar to tea, bitter and hot, not pleasant by itself."
"Um," said Kio, "not really. For me, art is-"
"You, on the other hand," said L, meeting Kio’s gaze and sitting back, carefully stirring his tea, "are the sugar, added to the tea, making it palatable, making it pleasant. Fun. Something to be loved."
Kio took a sip of his own tea, brow furrowed. "I guess that makes sense, kind of," he said. "But there’s a flaw in your logic, Ryuuzaki."
"Oh?"
"Yup." Kio held out his cup, and L dutifully leant forward, looking at the tea swirling in the glossy china. "I don’t take sugar in my tea," said Kio, softly. "I like it plain, bitter and hot and tangy, just like chewing on the leaves. It’s best that way, because then I know I’m really tasting the tea, not ignoring it in order to taste the sugar."
L sat back, sipping thoughtfully at his tea. "That," he said, "is a very interesting point, Kio-san."
Kio laughed. "Just ‘Kio’ is fine, no need to be formal with me."
"The flavor of the sugar is in conflict, then, with that of the tea?" said L.
"Yeah, I guess so," said Kio. "I mean, when I want sugar, I want to focus on the flavor of the sugar. Like in a lollipop or in ice cream, you know? You eat those because they’re sweet."
"I see," said L, nodding. "Interesting."
Kio grinned. "Thanks," he said. "Sou-chan always said I was weird for taking my tea bitter for that reason, but he took his bitter, too, so I don’t think it really matters, the reason. ‘S just personal preference, after all." He took a long sip of his tea and licked his lips. "I take sugar in my coffee, because I like the way the sugar and the roast of the beans play off of each other. Coffee’s not as delicate as tea, you know? Like the beans can hold their own better than leaves can, maybe."
"Maybe," echoed L. He added another cube of sugar to his tea, allowing it to dissolve without the benefit of stirring, the tea washing over it as he drank.
"You like sweets a lot, huh?" said Kio. "Or is it just sweet tea that you like?"
L didn’t answer, finishing his tea and pouring himself another cup, methodically adding sugar cubes-two cubes, then three cubes, then two cubes, then one cube-and stirring, the clink of his spoon against the sides of his cup the only sound in the apartment. Kio kept quiet, silently apologetic for the awkwardness his question had caused, watching L through the fringe of his hair as the man sat back, sipping at his replenished and sugared tea.
"I think," said L, after a long moment, his toes curling to grip the edge of the cushion he was occupying, "that I would like to see you draw some more, Kio-kun."
Kio gulped the rest of his tea all in one go and wiped his mouth, setting his cup and saucer on the low table as he slid off of the sofa, eager to do as his companion had requested. "Certainly," he said. "Any requests on the subject?"
L looked at him, stock-still and silent, and for a moment, Kio feared he’d upset the man, once again. But then he shook his head, dark hair flopping like a bird’s wings, and sipped his tea.
"No request," he said.
Kio nodded and sunk his hands into the pockets of his jeans, padding quietly over to the shelf of art supplies, once again. He selected a small sketchbook and a box of color-pencils, a mechanical pencil and a black ink-pen, then returned to the sofa and sat down sideways, one leg folded on the cushion in front of him, foot tucked neatly under his other leg.
"The first time I ever really loved making a drawing," he said, "I was in a public park with my older sister, and I was supposed to be drawing a tree. I drew a man who was sleeping under the tree, instead."
Oval. Lines. Wide curves for the eyes. Dark shading with the tip of the pencil’s lead.
"My sister scolded me for it, said I could get into a lot of trouble for drawing a person without that person's permission, so I went over to the man and asked him if he'd mind me drawing him," he continued. "He laughed and said he didn’t mind if I drew him, so long as my drawing didn’t keep him awake."
The turn of the chin, the line of the lips. Line-shading for the nose, sharp lines for the brow.
"I went back and told my sister what he'd said, and she just laughed, called me crazy," he said. "After that, I drew lots of things, mostly people. Entertained myself endlessly, making up stories about how different pencils felt different, like the people I was drawing could feel me drawing them."
Spiky lines from a quick flick of the wrist for the hairline. The curve of the ear nearly hidden, underneath.
"Wood pencils feel like a caress, like how my mom rubbed my back when I was sick and had trouble falling asleep," he said. "Mechanical pencils felt more like having my back scratched, erasers feel like a back massage. And color-pencils, those feel like tickling, but not the bad kind of tickling. The fun kind."
Outlines in ink, dark and thick. Shading in the same, thin and sharp and bright.
Kio frowned critically, nibbled his lower lip. "Sou-chan said he couldn’t feel it, when I told him about it. Said he couldn't feel my pencils or my brushes or my pens, but I tried anyway. Always gave him the best of the best, when I drew him, because I could."
Brown highlights in the eyes, the palest pink on the lips. Orange-red in the cup, and he was finished.
L looked at the drawing, then at Kio, then back at the drawing.
"You can feel it," he said, "where your subject cannot?"
Kio smiled. "If I’ve done my job right," he said, "then yes. That’s right."
L hmm'd and nodded and made no further comment, taking the drawing when Kio offered it to him. He studied it until Kio had fallen asleep, a frequent part of their routine, the blonde's head resting heavily against his thigh, then shifted carefully, pulling the sketchbook from Kio's hand. The blonde sighed and curled into a tighter ball, sock-soft feet whispering against the arm of the sofa before he stilled, breathing deep and slow and even, his hair dancing on each long exhalation.
L watched him for a moment, then plucked the mechanical pencil tucked behind Kio's ear from its tangle of hair and earrings, and slowly, began to draw.
~*♥*~*♥*~*♥*~
Deathgods may kill in order to protect a human from death, at cost of the Deathgod's life. In Deathnote, Rem uses that rule to kill Watari, in order to protect Misa-chan. According to the rules set up in the canon, this means Rem is now a pile of sand and cannot kill anyone else.
So L really shouldn't be dead.
What I think-and this, by the way, would be an excellent escape route for the mangaka, should he decide he wants to make more stories based off of L-is that Watari is the last line of defense, is L's canary-in-the-mineshaft, and that once he dies, a trigger is set off in L that puts him in a comatose state. He is declared dead by his organization and released from service, too much of a security risk to be useful to them anymore.
In this universe, he has been released and put into therapy, under constant surveillance, because you can't just set someone like L free on the world in his current state. He needs to learn to be a human again, not simply a tool.
That said, the fic itself is not spoilerific. Dedicated to silver_sweet, whom I miss like you would not believe, it's PG for fluff and utter ... calm, I suppose. Give it a read and see what you think. And as always, you know I want comments, so if you read it, drop me a note to tell me what you thought of it.
'Tis all!
Artistic Expression
by Mistr3ss Quickly
Soubi had tried Kio’s patience hundreds of times. Thousands of times. Innumerable times, even, to the point that calling it "daily" wouldn’t be far off the mark, save that Soubi hadn’t always bothered to grace his admirer-the only friend he’d ever had who'd not wanted him as a thing, rather than as a person-with his presence regularly enough for the term to stick.
Kio was good at being patient.
Kneeling on the soft carpet of an apartment designed more like a hotel room than a home, he smiled quietly at the dark-haired man across from him-Ryuuzaki, the doctors had called him upon Kio's first introduction-drawing a steadying breath under the other’s unnervingly penetrating gaze. Odd though this job seemed to him, Kio knew that it was unbelievable luck for an artist to find work immediately after graduation, and to find a job that paid well and covered living expenses in addition to a cushy salary was practically unheard of.
A little discomfort on the job was no big deal, really, considering.
"In answer to your question," he said, slowly, "I suppose that there is no real concrete reason to create art, not so far as you’ve defined ‘reason,’ but all the same, it’s good to create. Good for the mind and soul alike, and what’s good for the mind is good for the body."
Ryuuzaki L cocked his head, the movement brushing his thick dark hair against one of his knees, which were pulled up, almost to his chest. "Your argument is sound enough, but I do not seem to be suffering any ill effect from lack of activities involving artistic expression," he said. "Why change now, when there is no ailment to be remedied?"
Kio stifled a sigh. The doctors in charge of briefing him had explained the patient’s condition to him, had strictly ordered him not to try any home-brew psychotherapy on the man. Severe paranoia, mixed with a brilliant mind and a devastating sense of loss and displacement, they’d said, made this man both sullen and conversational, curious and cynical, his desire to be useful conflicting with his feelings of powerlessness.
A conundrum, one doctor said. A walking contradiction.
And, apparently, art was the solution. With soft European classical music playing in the background and shelves lining the walls, stocked with paints and papers and brushes and pencils and pigments, Kio had been hired to spend time with this eccentric man, engaging him in conversation and-hopefully-teaching him to express himself creatively in whatever ways possible.
It was much harder, in practice, than Kio had initially thought it would be.
"I guess that’s true," he said, shrugging. "But by the same argument, I don’t think you’re going to suffer any ill effects from giving art a try, either."
"Hmm," said L. "An interesting argument."
"Will you give it a try, then?" said Kio, optimistically.
But L shook his head, dark eyes never leaving Kio’s.
"I will observe you, first," he said, carefully, his bare toes wiggling against the soft carpeting. "It is best to understand before attempting to duplicate."
Kio sighed. "Fair enough," he said.
Under the other’s ever-constant gaze, he rose and stretched, padding almost soundlessly-just like a cat, Sou-chan, you’d love the carpet here-over to the shelves on the wall, frowning as he selected a large art pad and a graphite pencil, grabbing an eraser and a red color-pencil as well, as an afterthought. He returned to his spot on the floor and sat, one leg folded in front of him and the other up, beside him, almost a mirror of his companion, color-pencil and eraser resting just to the side his knee as he opened the pad of paper.
Then he began to draw.
He’d never personally known anyone with a mental illness, before, save for his grandmother, who had suffered from senile dementia towards the end of her life. Despite the doctors’ assurances that Ryuuzaki would display no violent tendencies, that any topic was safe for discussion, really-you’ll know if you’ve hit a nerve, he’ll just clam up and refuse to talk-Kio felt apprehension tugging at his chest as he began to draw, praying that he’d not upset his companion, not on their first day working together, at least. Tongue-tip caught between his teeth, he frowned and began to sketch lightly, pencil-lead whispering across the thick paper.
An oval for the head; lines where the eyes and nose would be.
Two almond-shaped eyes, sketchy and not quite to his liking; eyelashes and shading helping to even them out.
One long, tricky line, drawn beneath the shadow of the nose; shading to make it look like a mouth.
"The likeness to a real individual is striking," said L, hovering close enough to Kio that Kio jumped, heart pounding in surprise. "This is an acquaintance?"
"Yeah," said Kio, breathing hard and trying to argue his heart back into his chest, out of his throat where he was certain it had leapt at L’s sudden appearance beside him, rather than across from him. "That’s Soubi, my Sou-chan. He was my roommate, at University."
"I see," said L, dark eyes moving from the paper to Kio’s face, then back again, head cocked to the side. "A familiar study, then."
Kio shrugged and returned to sketching, shading Soubi’s eyelids, smudging the graphite on Soubi’s cheeks with the pad of his thumb, highlighting the beautiful cheekbones he’d so often kissed, then later longed to kiss, watching the blonde from a distance.
"He was an art major, like me," he said, defining Soubi’s long, elegant chin, sketching the curve of one graceful ear, "so he was often my model. I’d just draw him while he painted, since we shared a studio."
"I see," said L. "Interesting."
"Mmm," said Kio. He shaded Soubi’s eyes, dark and soulful and beautiful, especially without the spectacles the older man had taken to wearing, just months after Seimei’s death. "I loved him a lot, actually. Loved to draw him, loved to paint him. Loved just being around him, you know?"
L stiffened. "Yes," he said, quietly.
"He didn’t feel the same about me, though," continued Kio, arm moving more fluidly as he drew Soubi’s long hair, flowing conveniently over the lobe of Soubi’s ear, concealing the piercing he’d so strongly resented seeing, every time Soubi had come around, battered and bruised and glowing. "He had a boyfriend who died, then later decided that it’d be better to date with his boyfriend’s younger brother than to date with me, even though the brother was way too young to be dating with anybody. That’s how I understood it, anyway. Really made me mad."
Soubi’s hair was finished, long and wild, as though Soubi were standing by the window on a stormy evening, watching the rain pelt down on the city beyond the warmth and safety of their little studio. Kio cocked his head and squinted as he drew the curve of Soubi’s neck, shading the hollow of the man’s throat with the pad of his thumb and frowning when he couldn’t get it to look right, no matter how hard he tried.
He stole a glance at L’s throat, shaded the hollow a bit higher, and nodded, satisfied.
L watched him, chewing absently at the pad of his own thumb, leaning closer when Kio exchanged his sketching pencil for the color-pencil, adding just the slightest blush to Soubi’s lips, then to the highlights of his cheeks.
Soubi smiled. Kio sighed.
"There," he said. "How’s that?"
"Curious," said L, slowly, "that you borrow my throat for a drawing of your common study."
"Oh, that," said Kio. "Sou-chan always wore bandages around his neck to cover a scar his first boyfriend gave him. Nasty big thing, covered his whole throat. I didn’t mind it, always wanted him to take off the bandages, but he refused, so I refuse to draw them on there."
L hmm’d softly. "You refuse to draw the scar as well?" he said.
Kio nodded. "That’s right," he said. "Your neck looks good on him anyway, though, don’t you think?"
L didn’t answer, head cocked to the side, once again. "You are very honest," he observed.
"I try," said Kio, shrugging. "Only lie when I’m trying to keep birthday presents a surprise or when I’m being sarcastic, usually."
"Hmm," said L. "Interesting."
Then he rose and disappeared from the room, leaving Kio to sigh and put away the paper and pencils, the drawing forgotten in the middle of the floor.
~*♥*~*♥*~*♥*~
By the end of the first week, hands and face smudged with graphite, Kio was feeling both exhilarated and exhausted, having created a considerable stack of sketches, some better than others, with L by his side, a quiet, comforting presence.
L himself still hadn’t drawn a single line, but had watched intently while Kio drew, commenting every so often, asking questions about Kio’s life, about Soubi and the other artists with whom Kio had worked. The topic of Soubi was their most common, L's dark eyes drawn away from Kio's hands whenever Soubi's name was mentioned, returning to Kio's artwork only when the conversation had moved on. Each day, they would take a break at three o'clock, L rising just before the clock chimed, silently disappearing into the back of the apartment, returning with tea and cookies once Kio had stretched and washed his hands, waiting patiently on the sofa.
"Guess you can probably see why I think everyone should try drawing, huh?" said Kio, dipping his head in thanks as he took the cup L offered him. "I really love it. It’s fun."
L blinked at him, watched Kio close his eyes as the steam wafted up from his cup, tickling his face.
"Perhaps," he said, settling at the opposite end of the sofa with his own cup of tea, carefully stirring first two sugar cubes, then three, into the steaming liquid. "Your art is similar to a cup of tea."
"Really?" said Kio. "How so?"
L sipped his tea, then reached for the sugar bowl, capturing two more cubes, one between his index and middle fingers, the other between his middle and ring fingers. He held the cubes up for Kio to see, then dropped them into his tea, holding out his cup so that Kio could watch them dissolve.
"Your art," he said, "is not at all fun, as you’ve suggested, nor is it something loved. It is similar to tea, bitter and hot, not pleasant by itself."
"Um," said Kio, "not really. For me, art is-"
"You, on the other hand," said L, meeting Kio’s gaze and sitting back, carefully stirring his tea, "are the sugar, added to the tea, making it palatable, making it pleasant. Fun. Something to be loved."
Kio took a sip of his own tea, brow furrowed. "I guess that makes sense, kind of," he said. "But there’s a flaw in your logic, Ryuuzaki."
"Oh?"
"Yup." Kio held out his cup, and L dutifully leant forward, looking at the tea swirling in the glossy china. "I don’t take sugar in my tea," said Kio, softly. "I like it plain, bitter and hot and tangy, just like chewing on the leaves. It’s best that way, because then I know I’m really tasting the tea, not ignoring it in order to taste the sugar."
L sat back, sipping thoughtfully at his tea. "That," he said, "is a very interesting point, Kio-san."
Kio laughed. "Just ‘Kio’ is fine, no need to be formal with me."
"The flavor of the sugar is in conflict, then, with that of the tea?" said L.
"Yeah, I guess so," said Kio. "I mean, when I want sugar, I want to focus on the flavor of the sugar. Like in a lollipop or in ice cream, you know? You eat those because they’re sweet."
"I see," said L, nodding. "Interesting."
Kio grinned. "Thanks," he said. "Sou-chan always said I was weird for taking my tea bitter for that reason, but he took his bitter, too, so I don’t think it really matters, the reason. ‘S just personal preference, after all." He took a long sip of his tea and licked his lips. "I take sugar in my coffee, because I like the way the sugar and the roast of the beans play off of each other. Coffee’s not as delicate as tea, you know? Like the beans can hold their own better than leaves can, maybe."
"Maybe," echoed L. He added another cube of sugar to his tea, allowing it to dissolve without the benefit of stirring, the tea washing over it as he drank.
"You like sweets a lot, huh?" said Kio. "Or is it just sweet tea that you like?"
L didn’t answer, finishing his tea and pouring himself another cup, methodically adding sugar cubes-two cubes, then three cubes, then two cubes, then one cube-and stirring, the clink of his spoon against the sides of his cup the only sound in the apartment. Kio kept quiet, silently apologetic for the awkwardness his question had caused, watching L through the fringe of his hair as the man sat back, sipping at his replenished and sugared tea.
"I think," said L, after a long moment, his toes curling to grip the edge of the cushion he was occupying, "that I would like to see you draw some more, Kio-kun."
Kio gulped the rest of his tea all in one go and wiped his mouth, setting his cup and saucer on the low table as he slid off of the sofa, eager to do as his companion had requested. "Certainly," he said. "Any requests on the subject?"
L looked at him, stock-still and silent, and for a moment, Kio feared he’d upset the man, once again. But then he shook his head, dark hair flopping like a bird’s wings, and sipped his tea.
"No request," he said.
Kio nodded and sunk his hands into the pockets of his jeans, padding quietly over to the shelf of art supplies, once again. He selected a small sketchbook and a box of color-pencils, a mechanical pencil and a black ink-pen, then returned to the sofa and sat down sideways, one leg folded on the cushion in front of him, foot tucked neatly under his other leg.
"The first time I ever really loved making a drawing," he said, "I was in a public park with my older sister, and I was supposed to be drawing a tree. I drew a man who was sleeping under the tree, instead."
Oval. Lines. Wide curves for the eyes. Dark shading with the tip of the pencil’s lead.
"My sister scolded me for it, said I could get into a lot of trouble for drawing a person without that person's permission, so I went over to the man and asked him if he'd mind me drawing him," he continued. "He laughed and said he didn’t mind if I drew him, so long as my drawing didn’t keep him awake."
The turn of the chin, the line of the lips. Line-shading for the nose, sharp lines for the brow.
"I went back and told my sister what he'd said, and she just laughed, called me crazy," he said. "After that, I drew lots of things, mostly people. Entertained myself endlessly, making up stories about how different pencils felt different, like the people I was drawing could feel me drawing them."
Spiky lines from a quick flick of the wrist for the hairline. The curve of the ear nearly hidden, underneath.
"Wood pencils feel like a caress, like how my mom rubbed my back when I was sick and had trouble falling asleep," he said. "Mechanical pencils felt more like having my back scratched, erasers feel like a back massage. And color-pencils, those feel like tickling, but not the bad kind of tickling. The fun kind."
Outlines in ink, dark and thick. Shading in the same, thin and sharp and bright.
Kio frowned critically, nibbled his lower lip. "Sou-chan said he couldn’t feel it, when I told him about it. Said he couldn't feel my pencils or my brushes or my pens, but I tried anyway. Always gave him the best of the best, when I drew him, because I could."
Brown highlights in the eyes, the palest pink on the lips. Orange-red in the cup, and he was finished.
L looked at the drawing, then at Kio, then back at the drawing.
"You can feel it," he said, "where your subject cannot?"
Kio smiled. "If I’ve done my job right," he said, "then yes. That’s right."
L hmm'd and nodded and made no further comment, taking the drawing when Kio offered it to him. He studied it until Kio had fallen asleep, a frequent part of their routine, the blonde's head resting heavily against his thigh, then shifted carefully, pulling the sketchbook from Kio's hand. The blonde sighed and curled into a tighter ball, sock-soft feet whispering against the arm of the sofa before he stilled, breathing deep and slow and even, his hair dancing on each long exhalation.
L watched him for a moment, then plucked the mechanical pencil tucked behind Kio's ear from its tangle of hair and earrings, and slowly, began to draw.
~*♥*~*♥*~*♥*~