Fallen

Prompt: "A very different Harry."

Premise: "...in which Harry is a Light fan-boy."

Warnings: This is a "Harry-is-(a male version of) Misa" fic, so if implied romantic attachment between two males isn't your thing, then feel free to skip this one. Also, I regret NOTHING. Constructive Criticism is welcome. Flames will be ignored and/or reported, depending on content. Fair warning. UNBETA'd.

. . . . .

Before he was even old enough for primary school, Harry'd had scores of old ladies in unflattering paisley house dresses telling him how precious he was, with his "angel face" and "those lovely eyes." Aunt Petunia had hated him for it, of course, bitter and jealous that it was he, and not her own precious child, that earned all the cooing praise from her would-be social peers.

Harry had ignored her foul words, her temper, her sneers, for all the good it did him. The more praise he earned for his "sweet face" and "genteel manners," the louder her criticisms became. Honestly, if he were inclined towards combativeness, he would have been tempted to rage at the harpy, call her out for her transparent acts of jealousy.

However, Harry wasn't combative, and hadn't called her out. He simply smiled and continued on, as if he was unaffected by her petty cruelty and her pitiful acts of jealousy.

Despite his best attempts at congeniality, and politeness, and good behavior, she'd won, in the end. The praises that had fallen so easily from those old ladies' lips dried up as the rumors spread...the rumors about what a little heathen he was, about how long-suffering his poor aunt and uncle were for putting up with such a deviant. It was a hard lesson for him to learn so young, that being good wasn't always a guarantee that you'd come out on top.

After a while, Harry surprise and upset at this traumatic paradigm shift faded, gentled, into reluctant admiration. For all her small-minded pettiness, his aunt could be remarkably, brilliantly devious when she felt slighted. This lesson, like the last, was one that stuck with him, even though he didn't quite know what to do with it.

Years passed, and Harry watched. He watched his aunt wield her insincere smile, her simpering wit, like a well-sharpened blade. He watched as this woman—this boring, average woman—maneuver and manipulate like a grand chess master. He watched it all, and he took it in, quietly soaking it all in like a sponge.

For a while, he contented himself with quietly watching his aunt, learning to wield gossip, and a genteel sort of idiocy like the weapons they could be. He wasn't happy, true, but this life was better than before, without the harshly whispered condemnations of the neighbors that had once showered him in praises.

Then, puberty hit, and the murmurs started up again. This time, they poured in in droves, despite his aunt's snide remarks, and pointed implications that he was a "fiend," or a "deviant," and possibly—worst of all, in her mind— "THAT sort of boy." Harry hadn't blinked at the implication, mostly because he truly had no opinion on it either way—he was nine, after all, and not at all interested in that sort of thing. Still, even with the undertone of scandal coloring the praises, they continued to pour in, and his aunt seemed to hate him all the more for it.

It was only when his 11th birthday came to pass, as unremarkable as any other, that things changed for Harry. It was odd, really, to see the shift in his so-called family. It was almost as if they'd been waiting for something to happen, and when it hadn't, it was as if Harry had finally proven his worth.

Only then did Aunt Petunia stop sneering at the praises, and start giving him these long, considering looks.

Only then did Aunt Petunia turn her own simpering smiles at him, quietly encouraging him to use his charm to garner favors and further praise from the most influential in the neighborhood.

Though he was no longer invisible, neither was he berated or scorned. Instead, he was praised and encouraged, pampered and cooed at.

It was odd, but not unpleasant.

Then, when he was thirteen, his aunt took him to the city, looking as proud as a peacock in full display as she walked him through the door of Great Britain's premiere modeling agency.

. . .

Harry ruffled his platinum locks for what felt like the millionth time in an hour. He was bored, and would rather be doing anything else than looking over his latest bit of publicity. With a sigh, he turned his dispassionate gaze towards the Teen Magazine featuring his latest shoot, silently critiquing his every pose, as well as the horribly heavy make-up and leather he'd been forced into for this particular shoot.

He bit back a wince at the neon pink header, declaring love for the new "Idol," Mizue.

It was times like these that Harry was honestly surprised by the brilliance of his agent. He wouldn't have thought to use a pseudonom, if left to his own devices. Even after all this time, he was still too straight-forward to consider that a model called "Harry" would sell less Idol Magazines than one called "Mizue."

Sue him, but he liked to think his fans were smart enough to know that they were being lied to. Maybe that was naïve of him—his agent sure thought so, with the way she'd laughed the first and only time he'd expressed that opinion.

Harry—damn it all, Mizue (he'd be stuck with that name for as long as he was in Japan, so should fucking use it) dropped the magazine in disgust, not even bothering with the gushing interview that reeked of Industry Ass Kissing.

It was no use. He was too distracted.

He flopped back onto his bed with a pout. "I'm so bored~!"

His hair rustled on his pillow as the Shinigami slid soundlessly towards his bed. "If you focused on your work, you'd be less bored, Mizue."

He pouted, his cheeks puffing out in what he knew was a ridiculous pout. "You're no fun, Rem."

The Shinigami said nothing, and his pout deepened. Honestly, it wasn't his fault that he was distracted. It was just—it had been so hard to focus since he'd found HIM, his Precious Kira.

To be honest, Kira hadn't really registered with him, at first. He was busy, more often than not, what with photo shoots, and interviews, and contract meetings, and so on. Of course, he'd seen the websites and heard the murmurs, but they were background noises, mostly...that is, until he'd done what Mizue couldn't.

Kira avenged him.

There were no words for his gratitude, his unwavering thanks. It was only then that the dusty little notebook Rem had given him all those years ago finally came out of hiding. It was only then that he'd finally said yes to all those softly murmured offers of the Shinigami Eyes. After all, what was half a life time when he could be working to help his most beloved Savior?

In the end, it was those same magnificent eyes that had allowed him to find his Most Precious One. Kira. Yagami Tsuki.*

He'd been so happy to see him, wandering Aoyama, a boy not too much younger than he was, and so friendly, so handsome, to boot. If he was being honest with himself, Ha—Mizue could admit he fell in love a little bit that day.

Ha...Mizue wanted, no...needed to see him again, to talk to him, but he wasn't sure where to start. It wasn't that he didn't know how to look him up on the computer, but he wasn't sure how Kira would react to meeting him. After all, he hadn't seemed too pleased about the messages that he'd left for him on Sakura TV. Silly spoil-sport Kira.

Even so, he needed to meet him soon, if only to thank him. He owed his savior that much, at least, for taking it out the beast that murdered his aunt, uncle, and wretch of a cousin. He may not have particularly liked them all the time, but nobody deserved what that monster had done to them.

...so much blood.

He shivered, shoving away the memory of the carnage.

His lips pressed together in a stubborn frown, as he slowly rolled off his bed. It was time. For the sake of his sanity, his career, he couldn't afford to wait any longer.

He was going to find his Kira.

. . .

Mizue shifted anxiously, trying not to let His Savior's charming mother and little sister see just how nervous he was. They could never know, understand, just how much this meeting meant for him. So, he put on his Professional Smile, laughing when little Sayu laughed, and chatting with her over his latest photo shoots as they slowly climbed the stairs towards His room.

He could hear the quiet shuffle of feet headed towards the door, and he held his breath in anticipation. Then, he saw His face, looking adorable in his polite confusion. Mizue didn't blame the boy, honestly, he was sure he was a sight, what with his white-blonde hair and all the leather. He bit back a delighted laugh at the boy's expense, as he was sure he wouldn't appreciate such a thing.

"Hello, Yagami-kun~! I came to return your notebook!"

He watched, stomach fluttering in ecstatic glee, as realization spread over those pretty features. Kira smiled. "Won't you come in?"

Mizue felt a smile spread across his lips slowly as he watched the brunette slowly shut his bedroom door behind him.

[end]

*Light/Raito's name is spelled with the Kanji for Moon, "Tsuki."