Outcasts- L X Depressed!Reader

You stared at your reflection in a mirror. You weren't pretty, as you had concluded long ago. You were common, with large, dull (e/c) eyes on a pale face with (h/l) (h/c) locks and thin lips that rarely uttered a word, smiling even less. You didn't mind what you looked like though. Mainly because you didn't care what people thought of you. You had been antisocial since the day of your birth, and would probably be like that until the day you died. Only one person on Earth could call you his friend truthfully. He probably wouldn't, but you wouldn't object if he did. His name was L, or Lawliet, or any of his other aliases. You just call him L. He seemed to understand you, your reserved, walled in nature, your hatred of people knowing anything about you, and your secret hatred of yourself. You saw yourself as common, stupid, and uninteresting. He found you to be intriguing, and was fascinated by how your eyes seemed gemlike when you were happy, how silky your hair was when it brushed his arm as you crouched next to him. He didn't understand you, and it frustrated and interested him. What he didn't see in your appearance was what lay under the long sleeves you always wore. Ugly scars crossed the tops of your arms, products of your rage. Some were fresh and pink, while others were just pale lines, barely visible on your alabaster flesh. True, you didn't care what others thought of you, but you did care what you thought about yourself. And you saw a clear image when you thought about yourself: A sickly thin, abnormally tall, oddly pale girl with dark rings under her eyes. Limp (h/c) hair hung lifelessly from her head, and lips that looked strangely pink against a paper colored background. You looked your outfit over as you headed to L's house. It consisted of a long sleeve gray dress with black platform boots that had fake golden bullets on the sides, black stockings with gray skulls adorning them covering the area of your legs between the boots and the dress. A small black messenger bag, containing candy, a jar of cherries, and a few batches of fresh-baked cookies had it's strap across your torso. Thankfully his house wasn't far off, so you weren't sweating when you entered the door, despite the midsummer heat and the moderately heavy bag. You looked around, confused. No keyboard clicks, no plops of sugar cubes dropping into coffee, no noise at all. You crept to L's room, gently pushing open his door. A form in a white shirt and jeans was curled on the bed, in the fetal position with the blankets at the end of the bed. You quietly crept to L's sleeping form and pulled the blankets carefully over the sleeping man, smoothing out his wild, inky hair softly. You decided to wait for him to wake up and sat in a chair next to the bed. Before long, you dozed off, your head resting lightly on the pillow next to L's. His dark eyes eventually snapped open to see a familiar (h/c) haired head resting on the pillow next to his. He blinked at you owlishly, then realized that his blanket wasn't thrown off like every other morning, but was tucked securely around him. He sniffed, catching a whiff of something sweet. He looked at your bag, and reached for it, causing him to fall off of the bed, knocking you down with him and waking you up. His ribs hit your hip and you yelped in pain.