But Raito was too much of an intellectual to realize that, despite having hated various people at different stages of his existence, not once had he felt as motivated as he currently did to physically express that hatred. He actually wanted to touch the other man, to grab his shoulders and wring them, to soil all the planes of skin he’d seen exposed in front of the well that morning. And the more he thought about wanting to do it, the more his want increased.
Until, soon enough, he hadn’t even realized he’d taken a step forward, toward the other. L stood his ground, glaring.
“You are an idiot” Raito repeated, in his ire not aware of how absolutely childish he had started to sound “who can’t see beyond his own nose. As though you’re not the one who wants me to be Kira. You can’t stomach it, can you? To walk around with your own murderer, licking his boots?”
L took a step forward of his own, saying nothing. His eyes said it all. He wasn’t beling playful any more.
But Raito did not stop there, the angry glint in L’s black orbs urging him to take the decisive plunder.
“Or perhaps, you don’t like to call people by their real names.” The chestnut haired man let the tone of his voice trickle to poisonous sweetness – the kind of think he knew was sure to infuriate the other “You’re jealous. Because you have no name of your own.”
L was breathing heavily. Even Raito could see it.