Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note or any of the characters herein. Although I definitely fleshed A out a lot, not that you can see it in this...
A/N: I wrote this for MRS-Jeevas's year later contest over on MangaBullet. Some of my favorite characters in Death Note! Woot!
It had been a very long time since he'd first snuck out of the House. It had been a clear autumn night, with stars twinkling in every corner of the sky. When he'd seen it, he'd shaken his roomate awake and dragged him outside, ignoring his protests. They'd stood on the lawn, looking up at the stars, and his friend had named every constellation he could see. The small smile that had settled itself on his face was something that had to belong somewhere years and miles away from Wammy's House.
He wondered what would've happened if his friend hadn't been the only one to escape the flames that had orphaned him.
He knew he was being a superstitious fool, but as the Cathedral came into view, he couldn't quell the notion that maybe, just maybe, ghosts walked the night with him, just as invisible in the shadows between streetlights as he was.
Logic aside, he thought he might like to see a ghost.
It was the same type of night as it had been a year before: cold, overcast, and utterly black. Even though there were no curtains hanging on the windows, the hall had still been as black as the rest of the night. There was no one awake to have lights on. No one but him, and he didn't want the light. He didn't want to see.
He hadn't wanted to see, but he had. It felt like his duty. That was why he'd taken the room key from Roger's hand. The old man hadn't stopped him.
Maybe he should have.
The tall iron bars loomed before him, but they were hardly a difficulty for him. He shimmied up them, then sprung off the horizontal bar, clearing the dull spikes and landing softly in the grass on the other side.
The grave wasn't difficult to find. He remembered exactly where it was, although it had been nearly a year since the stone had first been set in place. He crouched down, pulled his flashlight out of his pocket, turned it on. The light was dim, but he could read the words engraved on the stone.
August Amias
August 31, 1982
January 21, 1996
There had been so much blood. The bed had been covered with it. It was like the red numerals that once marked his life had become the bloodbath that marked his death.
The gravestone was a sad parody of what he saw in life.
A gust of wind blew past him, whistling between gravestones and iron bars. It was almost enough to convince him that there were ghosts afoot. He reached out and traced A engraved on the stone.
He stood up. This was foolish. There was no reason for him to be here. There were no such thing as ghosts. The dead would not rise to avenge their murderers.
Still, he stared down at the grave below his feet, as though he was willing its occupant to reach out of the earth and walk the night with him one more time.
But his friend didn't rise out of the grave. Beyond Birthday stood alone, then turned and walked away.
There were no ghosts that walked the night.
None but him.