She was a robot? She was a ROBOT? (mithrigil) wrote in kinkfest, @ 2008-07-11 08:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | a: mithrigil, f: death note, july 11, p: light solo |
At Hand, Death Note (Light solo)
Title: At Hand
Author: Mithrigil
Fandom: Death Note
Rating: Hard R
Warning: W.B. Yeats is turning in his grave.
Words: 600
Prompt: 7/11 -- Death Note - Light - exhibitionism - "Slouching towards Bethelehem"
At Hand
death note
Mithrigil Galtirglin
It’s appropriate for him to come here—when it rains, and he can get away, at least. There were security cameras on the roof that day, and in the stairwell. Anyone concerned can extrapolate that he comes here to reminisce on the death of his friend.
Let them.
No one bothers him up here, no one intercedes. For all Light knows, they look away out of respect for his privacy. Then again, the cameras are only there to prevent people from jumping off the roof, from discrediting the establishment. And an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of flesh.
He’s never been so thankful for his facility with English.
These griefs and losses have so bated me,
That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh
To-morrow to my bloody creditor.
There are better men than Shakespeare to be fixating on right now.
Light knows the blind spots, doesn’t seek them out or stand in them but finds them with time. There’s a flaw in the concrete at one of them, enough that the water pools instead of draining toward the gutter. It’s long enough that he can’t stretch his legs out over it, would have to sit or stand in the filth if he wanted to hide and be caught at it. He does. He mires himself in it. The water rises along the cuffs of his pants—navy blue blackened in the rain. The ceremony of innocence is drowned.
Better men than Shakespeare indeed.
Light’s blazer is clinging to him. He removes it. Residual off-red dye from his tie ran into the lining at the neck, into the shirt underneath. He unknots that as well. There’s no place to hang anything but nothing matters, nothing will ever be dry until the flood purges the world of injustice—
Why did I start in Japan, Light thinks, when Western religion has every image that means me?
He drops the jacket and tie in a heap near the grating, unbuttons his shirt and casts that aside. His undershirt. His shoes, socks, slacks, shorts, this rhymes in Japanese but would be alliteration in another language. All that’s encroaching on him now is his wet hair and his ambition.
If anyone down in security is still watching him, they all deserve the show they’re about to get.
Leaving his clothes to gather water, to stop the drain, Light walks, calm as anything, to the building’s edge. The wide gratings are slick and empty underfoot, the concrete between them uncompromisingly rough. How many taboos is he shattering right now, just by existing? How many hells would he be going to if he’d never claimed the Note? How much of this is just to prove that he’s already God, and force the world to acknowledge it?
Surely some revelation is at hand.
The double-entendre exists in both languages.
The irony becomes reality—the progress of the water slows in its paths down Light’s skin when it has his hand to contend with. Trails of dryness persist for no time at all once he leaves a place untouched—he stands naked over his world with himself in hand as if to spread his seed upon it. Pretension. Such pretension. Or it would be pretension if not for the arousing truth.
Light pretends to nothing anymore.
Coming, he wonders if he should have salted the earth with Ryuuzaki’s ashes.
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