DEATH NOTE (isn't mine)
Title: After-School Activities
Rating: PG-13! Some groping.
Summary: He suspected Raito saw the inherent humor of the situation, how neatly the lesson paralleled his own life (although perhaps he didn’t think it was funny). In any case he must have known that L was looking at him rather than at the chalkboard...
Touo's students left the lecture hall in groups of varying size and urgency. Those encountering the gangly genius in the middle of the center aisle made room automatically, breaking apart and reforming like clumps of jellyfish. L himself stood stock still, the only person in the room with nowhere else to be. Unaware of his surroundings, almost, although Raito knew from a combination of experience and intuition that this was certainly not the case.
L’s darting gaze encompassed everything without lingering over any of it. Wide-open eyes held no discernable curiosity, only the flat acceptance of a dispassionate observer.
"Good to see you back in class, Ryuuga," Raito greeted. He moved easily against the flow of dispersing students, down the aisle and toward his rival. "I was worried you'd dropped out for good."
"No," L said. "As long as Raito is here, I have a reason to be here as well."
L’s shift in attention was palpable, eyes drawn unmistakably to Raito as he descended. The last of the crowd was gone, their voices cut off abruptly as the heavy fire door closed behind them. Raito liked the finality of that sound. The echoes were already fading away as L continued to watch him through long lashes, his posture a curious mixture of crouching down and looking up. It made Raito's neck hurt; the irritation barely registered before he firmly smoothed it away.
"You were gone for almost three weeks this time. Would you like me to go over the class notes with you?"
It was an excuse and they both knew it, but L nodded anyway. "Raito is a good friend," he said. They walked down the aisle together, simultaneously reaching the chalkboard dominating the front wall.
Raito began, in a series of precise strokes, to erase the board. He considered all the standard conversational topics, discarded them as quickly as they occurred to him. With L there was no need to feign interest in such unimportant things.
“You see what Ghent is saying here? Categorizing cult leaders on too broad a definition is counter-productive, since while some choose to consciously employ thought control methods, many are merely following their own pathological tendencies. They might have an innate understanding of the part of human nature others exploit intentionally…” here, Raito circled the word ‘sociopath’, drew a neat line connecting it to another circle reading ‘subconscious/conscious control.’ The flow-chart was rapidly becoming unmanageable, three weeks of lecture compressed onto a single board. It should have been impossible to follow, but Raito's impeccable organization made it easy.
“Namely, they exploit universal human dependency and attachment needs. Essentially, they trick their followers into masochistic submission behaviors so that they can be provided with powerful feelings of... well, power. And justification. Of course, a sociopath will never admit, even to himself, that he is anything less than perfect or that what he is doing is wrong.”
L nodded. The material was hardly new, but listening to Raito recite it was… interesting. He suspected Raito saw the inherent humor of the situation, how neatly the lesson paralleled his own life (although perhaps he didn’t think it was funny). In any case he must have known that L was looking at him rather than at the chalkboard covered in helpfully concise diagrams, although there was nothing in his behavior to suggest otherwise. It was hard to tell, with Raito.
If L had to codify what made him so fascinating (which he did, categorically analyzing his own emotions as thoroughly as he would a criminal’s), he would have said it was that uncertainty. Uncertainty allowed for unpredictability, which allowed one to be surprised. Perhaps his life had been too safe, before; L couldn’t recall the last time he had been genuinely surprised that wasn’t somehow connected to Raito.
As if to prove a point, Raito surprised him again. He finished the final circle, around ‘God-complex’, placed the chalk precisely where it had been when he’d picked it up, wiped his hands absently against his pants, and, firmly taking L’s hands in his own, kissed him.
Against the wall, Raito's hands holding his wrists to either side of his head, a knee between his legs, L was suddenly lost. It was close, confining, overwhelming, he couldn't think, it was...
Raito didn't stop, although he did smile. "Are you insulting my technique?"
"Not exactly. The set-up seems a bit clichéd."
A spark of what might have been annoyance flashed through Raito's eyes and was gone before his mouth descended again. L wished, as he always did, that the other boy would keep those expressions on his face long enough for L to identify them. He didn’t dwell on that wish, though. Rather, he couldn’t.
As typical as the experience was in a more general sense, it was somewhat new to L. He found he didn't actually mind all that much, the sensations a welcome distraction from his own relentless mind. Kissing back, he amused himself in gauging Raito's reaction. Then he examined his own, the result leaving him equal parts engaged and gleeful. Geniuses, both of them.
Suddenly Raito pulled back. He laughed, the same amused chuckle he used to smooth over otherwise awkward social situations. It was very fake and very Raito; L didn't bother with that kind of laugh.
"You're right," he said. "This is exactly like the plot of a bad drama. Do you think we should stop?"
"Not really," L said. "Since we both know, it's fine."
Psychobabble comes courtesy of this essay.