Sometimes, beneath her facade of cuteness, her made-up doll face, Misa thinks that she is really ugly on the inside. Weak and ugly. She looks at L and wonders why she can't be him, almost enviously.

Misa really likes L too, of course, but this is a cordial sort of like, the like of weeds and flowers, slowly trying to strangle and choke the roots until they die, never again to be overshadowed. And Misa envies L, for being so strong and opinionated. L is a idiot savant, and unafraid to anger Raito or to look superior, heaven to a skyscraper.

Sometimes, in her boudoir, brushing out the strands of rayon, her shell-petal lips outline what she will say to Raito, and show him that she is strong, perhaps stronger than he. She could do it! She could keep the secret of being Kira, of course!

Misa knows she is strong- this is evident in the way she talks to Rem, in the way that her eyes glitter with scintillating mirth when she deals with agents, weak to her adorable exterior.

And then she sees Raito, his face smiling like a noh mask, her diligently-built diamond walls come to a crumble, ruins in ashes, and a voice used for movies squeals, "Misa-misa missed Raito-kun, did Raito miss Misa too?"

Raito is the first to kiss her, and she responds eagerly with her red, ice-cream smelling lips while the stronger Misa cries, "No, NO!" and realizes that even if she were stronger, she would be doing it for Raito-kun all the same.

Later on, when she sees L and Raito so wildly and estatically alive fighting, she huddles in a corner because that is Misa, and wishes that Raito would throw a punch at her instead.

I've actually found a fic I would ADORE to write a sequel to, in which L gets his wish.

Albeit his dying wish, but a fufilled desire nonetheless!

Yeah, the quiet must be getting to me. -is shot for lame pun-

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Perhaps it is a brief look into his soul that I want on nights like these. Perhaps I am fool to believe that he even possesses one, as I have yet to see evidence of it. Then again, perhaps I am merely drunk on lack of sleep again, as I sit here wondering aimlessly to myself what I’m typing. He sleeps on, and he never turns, never wakes, never mutters incoherently in his dreams in the way that normal folk do.

Perhaps it is here, in the quiet, that I allow myself to acknowledge just how much…how very much, I want him. He is untouchable even here, unhampered by the genius chain of our society and those damnable social graces that he lives and breathes. He wears them like a bright cloak, to donned and shed with his every whim. I envy his ability to wear that particular color, because it is one that I couldn’t pull off myself.

Perhaps it is here, in the quiet, that I pause to acknowledge the physical aspect of Light Yagami. It is not a matter of my libido, or even my woefully inept socialization, for I realize that I am capable of being as courtly as the boy next to me when the occasion so calls. It is more that…when he is awake and walking, his mind is so powerful that I find my at once daunted and exhilarated. I am not afraid of him or his power, for I find him a near match, even my equal when the intensity strikes him, but…in the wake of that, in the wake of his sheer intellect…I find I am unable to remember that he is also one of the most beautiful people that I’ve ever lain eyes on.

And then he sleeps, and that great mind, that beautiful shining light take a breath, blinks, and it is here in the quiet, that I can see the gilded cage that keeps it. I can see the rise and fall of his chest, and the gentle tilt of his head. I can see the fine lines of his throat, and if my tongue clings to the roof of my mouth, it is only in effort to keep it to myself.

Perhaps, if he knew that, he would worry.

Because I think of it often, on nights like this, when the laptop is precariously balanced on one knee, and I type blindly with one hand, the other occupied with the pillow inches from his chin. I keep it there both to keep it in the limbo between us, a place previously occupied by a chain and the course of habit that comes between two straight men. I put it there to keep it from myself, because I don’t think he’d appreciate being woken by the sort of thoughts I have in my head…and I keep it there to keep off of him, because I highly doubt he’d appreciate the other option either.

Perhaps, if he knew I wanted him, he would worry.

It makes me smile really, an amusing distraction to think of what he would say if he were to read these random writings of mine. Perhaps, brilliant as he is, he lies awake even as my fingers move now, and is reading along in silent horror as I spell out exactly what it is that I want from him.

Him. All of him, there is scarce an inch of that skin that I do not wish to touch. I almost wish that I’d allowed a window in our room, that I may see him in the glory of the moonlight. I can’t imagine what such a pale beauty would hope to accomplish by painting him, but I am not one to deny the artist her trade. However, the idea of a screaming Kira pulling me over the window sill to a seventeen story fall was not a pleasant musing, and thus we are confined here, moonless and quiet.

Sometimes, I think, I can hear his heart beating.

It is probably a figment of my imagination, but it is a calming revelation nonetheless. I want to stroke my fingers down his chest as he sleeps and listen for it to pick up, ever so slightly. I want to drag my nails down between those finely crested shoulder blades and listen to it pound while he writhes beneath me, too. It is a strange dilemma, surely, but I’m almost positive that if I woke him with the former, I could end with that second fantasy after a few hours of toying with the boy. I could make him scream, I am almost positive of it. He is incredibly sensitive, I have noticed. He plays with the chain when it hangs wrong upon his wrist, and he knows if near a fraction of his hair is out of place. He complains of fine shirts being too coarse and uncomfortable. He sheds coats in favor of cooler fabrics.

Oh, how he’d scream.

I suppose that, in reality it is a bad idea to toy with such ideas when he sleeps mere inches from my side. I wonder if he can hear my heart…then again, perhaps it was my heart beating all along.

He sighs in his sleep, and it is the first sound I’ve heard from him in the week that he’s been with me. His eyes open briefly, foggy with sleep, and he meets my stare for a brief second.

I’m typing with one hand, and staring avidly at his face all the while. I can’t imagine it to be a pleasant image to wake to, but here I am nonetheless, and he is staring back.

I wonder if he knows his eyes are as dark as mine in the light of my computer screen. He frowns briefly, wrinkles his nose and sinks back into sleep.

I want to devour his lips, I’m afraid. They lie slightly parted, exposing a fine line of even, white teeth to be tasted and tormented. His bottom lip has a natural pout to it that most models have to fake, but Light Yagami…Light Yagami is a creature of his own design. He seeks perfection because that is the only thing he has ever known.

While it is undoubtedly strange of me to desire such things, I highly doubt I will…

…that is unless he licks his lips in such a fashion again. The boy knows not what he does to me, and it would not do to rouse him hours from his appointed time, and most certainly not in that manner.

But the sight of his tongue drives a fire through my blood that I can no explain, nor control. Desire is a fickle thing indeed, and she always takes me when I least expect it. That is a lie, actually, and I retract the sentiment. She takes me when I ask her to, when I open myself to such things as this. And he sleeps on peacefully, unaware that I want to watch his back arch beneath my hands, and his hips buck against mine. Or perhaps I would like to be on bottom for once, if for no other purpose than to watch his gloriously lithe frame ride above me. We are evenly matched in size, I think, and his knees would brush my stomach so, so smoothly as he moved. I would neither buck nor twitch to meet him, content to lay back watch him work himself upon me in frustration until he fell, spent, upon my chest.

And then, perhaps, I would turn him over and make him scream.

Yes, it is here, in the quiet, that I want Light Yagami.

But this is just another file to be saved to a small, but growing, folder in the corner of my harddrive. I will not wake him, I will not taste him, and sadly, I will not explore the delicious wealth of him.

Not yet at least. I can’t help but smirk at the thought, but one night…

Perhaps just one night, the quiet will get to me, and I’ll make him scream my name.

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And I'll make a part too before the kinkiness that has Raito's POV, and it'll be all mine. Mine, mine, deliciously mine.

Because I'm a childish brat who hates to lose.