tItiLe : the QUIET ones
cHaPtEr : L. Lawliet
fAnDoM : Death Note
pAiRiNg : L. Lawliet x Yagami Light (L x Light, L x L); Mail Jeevas x Mihael Keehl (Matt x Mello, MattMello, M x M); Yagami Light x Amane Misa (Light x Misa, LightMisa)
rAtInG : PG-14
wArnInGS : MASSIVE SPOILERS THROUGHOUT; character death; violence; language
sUmMaRy : A recollection of the fallen, for in death there are no words: L, Mello, Matt, Light, and Misa
cOmMeNtS : I don't often do this, but it was too much fun to pass up. It's basically the retelling of the main characters' deaths in their presective. I will update the individul chapters on the actual day of the their deaths (ex. both Mello's and Matt's chapters on January 26th, and Light's on January 28th). The first, of course is L's (November 5th). Any typos you see I will fix, since this is completely self-beta'd, as is all my work. I don't usually write in this format, so reviews are greatly appreciated as always. Enjoy!!
"Where is the Shinigami?"
He sits there staring
(with his too wide eyes, his fingers curled around frayed jeans).
He alone sits, is sitting hunched and dignified on the swiveled chair, a proud philosopher
(he is alone).
People talk and he doesn't hear them. He drowns them out as he stirs coffee with a little sliver spoon. Black tides ripple across the surface
(eight extra sugar cubes).
He takes great care not spill any, to splash one precious drop onto the saucer, the white china rimmed with a floral pattern of sorts.
He turns, he speaks. "Everyone, the Shiniga-"
(EXPLOSION)
The detective's body quivers, a violent seize. An empty hollow echo takes the place in his ribcage where his heart used to beat. The emptiness furiously claws like the talons of a crow, pecking and scrapping and gnawing into his scrawny chest
(pins and needles).
He releases the spoon, the others watching its long journey to the floor. They begin to realize something wrong, very wrong. He slumps over the edge, his weight shifting sideways much too far, and he starts to fall
(fallingfallingfalling)
DOWN. Off his pedestal, off his tower, the one he took so long to build
(all those sleepless nights, coffee-fueled, strawberry shortcake, the kind with real cream)
because he is never, ever wrong
(not in the orphanage, not in the previous three-thousand five-hundred cases he'd solved with ease, not now).
It takes a thousand years and a day to feel the sensation of hitting the ground. The pain is spreading, throbbing throughout his body, like pulse
(like he used to have, he'd never experience again).
But there was also something supporting him, holding him up and arching his back, his head thrown forward like a rag doll, an embrace of warm skin against his own, pale and gray
(arms?).
The eyes above the detective meet his, just as wide, just as frightened; the boy is still in shock as the man beneath him nears his final moments. The boy falters; he shivers, opens his mouth but cannot find the words. The detective keeps staring into those murky amber eyes
(he is still alone).
The detective exhales lightly. The boy can feel it on his face
(his last breath).
A smile cuts across the boy's lips, an all-knowing smirk, a victory in reach he could almost taste it, but, oh, the detective already knows and that's what hurts most of all
(KIRAKIRAKIRA).
"I've won, don't you see? You're dead, and I've killed you!" is what the boy wanted to shout at the top of his lungs, but he doesn't
(his father, the Task Force, he has to keep appearances).
The detective's vision blurs, he can no longer see the boy in front of him. His body ceases to move, not even twitch. His eyes
(bloodshot and the color of coal)
close softly for the last time.
L. Lawliet is dead.