Staying awake to chase a dream

kuroshitsuji | veritas diaboli manet in aeternum [2/2]

diluted_thought — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 02:36:23 GMT

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When Agni dared to open his eyes, he was doubled over and clutching his chest with both hands, his entire body covered in a cold sweat. Someone’s hand was lightly pressed against his back for support, and when he realized that hand belonged to Sebastian, he instantly jerked away and whirled around, arm knocking into something that clinked loudly in the process.

Sebastian blinked, quickly switching the tray holding a glass of milk and muffin from his left hand to his right so that it would not tip over. He placed his left hand behind his back and bowed his head a bit, smiling contritely.

Agni opened his mouth to apologize on reflex, but found he was incapable of speaking.

Sebastian shook his head, still smiling. “Do not apologize this time. I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Sebastian was dressed, fully and properly—tailcoat, waistcoat, dress shirt and tie all in check—once again the picture of a model butler. Agni had the presence of mind to check himself afterwards: his kurta, his turban, the bandages on his Right Hand of God. He sighed in relief and looked upwards, murmuring thanks.

Sebastian’s expression was dubious at best. “You had me concerned, Mr. Agni.” Mr. Agni. They were back on polite, friendly terms. The welcome distance between them eliminated that awkwardness from before.

Agni cleared his throat so he could speak. “How long was I…” He gestured uselessly with his hands.

“Oh, not terribly long,” Sebastian said vaguely. “When I excused myself to get the young master’s snack, you seemed to be quite immersed in your thoughts, so I thought little of it. But when I returned, you looked quite ill. Did something happen while I was gone?”

“No,” he said too quickly. He was still put off by what had—or had not—happened, and how real it had all felt. How could he have imagined something like that? “I was just…immersed in my thoughts, as you said.”

“Ah,” Sebastian acknowledged with a nod; he seemed unconvinced, but did not press him further, and for that Agni was grateful. He inspected the glass of milk critically, going on to say, “I really should bring this tray up to the young master before his milk cools.” His eyes cut across the dim room to Agni. “Please excuse me.”

Agni smiled a little, still put-off by his own thoughts. “Of course. I’ll be in the kitchen making myself a cup of tea.”

He watched Sebastian ascend the staircase. He should have been comforted knowing that things between them were (had been?) normal. But Agni couldn’t shake off this feeling of dread and discomfort, because he knew he couldn’t have just imagined everything. It was too thorough, too real to have just been imagined.

“S— Mr. Sebastian,” he heard himself say. “Did I…say anything while I was, er, lost in my thoughts?”

Sebastian stopped halfway up the staircase, his back towards Agni. “No, not that I recall,” he said offhandedly.

Agni noticed that his right hand was trembling at his side; his throat was parched. “You’re sure?”

Sebastian looked at him over his shoulder with an all-knowing smile—

His eyes were bright and red with the promise of lies whispered in the dead of night, as skin slick with sweat glided against skin, long fingers pulled at white hair, nails raked dangerous designs across pale skin, Sebastian’s name on his lips as he thrust in and pulled out and in and out over and over again, with Sebastian’s free hand around him there, moving up and down, flicking his thumb here, grazing a nail there, until Sebastian breathed his name against his mouth, and that was when he would finally…

…see the hellfire, the brimstone, smell the coppery blood and the decaying of flesh, his own flesh, as he was tortured but never put out of his misery, a hundred thousand needles stabbing him, deep, agonizingly deep, before they pulled out and attacked the flesh that hadn’t been charred by the flames, that hadn’t been chewed off and spit to the floor; and his bones were being gnawed at and then thrown aside, and he was screaming for his god, for forgiveness, for redemption, but only he was there, so elegant in black, teeth sharp and bared, laughing at his misery and his pain.

—that made Agni feel very weak.

“I never lie, Mr. Agni.”

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—fin—

kuroshitsuji | veritas diaboli manet in aeternum [1/2]

diluted_thought — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 01:24:56 GMT

Title: Veritas Diaboli Manet in Aeternum
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Rating: R (bordering on NC-17)
Characters/Pairings: Agni, Soma, Sebastian, and Ciel; Sebastian/Agni (Arshad).
Warnings: AU. Vaguely explicit sexual content.
Word Count: 16,381
Author’s Note: Post Curry Arc of the mangaverse. AU begins towards the end of Chapter 23: His Butler, Intermingling; in other words, this takes place shortly after Soma and Agni begin taking care of Ciel’s townhouse in London, with no references made to the Noah’s Circus Arc.

Agni had learned not to question his prince.

It was not his place to challenge a man who had mercifully spared his soul, a soul that had been filthier than the grime that clung to the soles of his bejeweled sandals. This man—no, his prince, his master, his god—had somehow managed to kindle light from a burnt candle wick, had given him a new life and a reason to live. So when Prince Soma had told Agni that they were going to England in order to find his beloved Meena, Agni had assented humbly; and when Prince Soma had decided to stay in London because he wished to become a great gentleman like Earl Ciel Phantomhive, Agni had agreed without protest.

But now, as his prince stood before him, possessively clutching some sort of book to his chest, having just finished making the bold accusation of, “Ciel’s butler is not human,” Agni had to bite down on his back teeth to keep himself in check. His eyes darted about quickly, surveying the townhouse, making sure that earl and butler had not yet arrived to hear the slanderous remark. They were expecting them shortly. (Sebastian had sent word earlier in the week that his master wished to make “a most perfunctory visit to the townhouse,” giving Agni the suspicion that Ciel did not trust Prince Soma’s skills as a caretaker.)

“Forgive me, my prince,” Agni managed to stay without sputtering. “I seem to not have heard you correctly.” Or at least he hoped. “You believe Mr. Sebastian is, ah—?”

“He’s not human, Agni,” Soma insisted, a lock of violet hair falling over his shoulder as he leaned forward intently. “There is no way that an Englishman like him—a butler, no less—could make a curry to rival yours in such little time! You have The Right Hand of God.”

Well, no, he hadn’t thought of that, but… “With all due respect,” Agni started, hoping to placate the prince with a polite smile, “you told me that you helped Mr. Sebastian when he was experimenting with the curries. I imagine your critiques played a large part in making the curry successful.”

“He learned how to make the perfect curry in one week,” the prince said shrilly, “and he came up with the idea of stuffing it into a naan to make some sort of…westernized pastry. He doesn’t have The Right Hand of God, yet he made a curry that beat yours.” In spite of himself, Agni felt a twinge of guilt.

“He’s just as skilled as you are in fencing despite him being a butler. He performs ridiculous feats with the grace of the divine, and when we ask him how he’s able to do it, he says it’s because he’s”—here, the prince tuned his voice to mock the cadence of the butler’s voice—“‘one hell of a butler.’”

Agni bit his lip. How was he going to say this without incurring the wrath of his now petulant prince? “Sir, if I may be so bold, I think you’re taking this a little too far,” he said slowly, carefully watching his prince, ready to stop if he sensed any hostility. “Mr. Sebastian takes his title as butler of the Phantomhive family very seriously. I am sure his exceptional skill is due to his dedication to Master Ciel—”

“Agni,” Soma cut in wearily, “Why do you trust Sebastian so much?”

Because I consider him a friend of mine, Agni wanted to say, which instead came out to be, “I—er—well, my prince…”

Soma gauged his reaction and waved his hand dismissively, as if to say, Forget I said that. He launched himself into a nearby armchair and placed his feet upon the coffee table before promptly removing them, evidently remembering that slouching was not in a gentleman’s aesthetics.

“It’s not like I don’t have proof,” Soma drawled, recovering quickly, sitting up straight as a right angle. Agni looked down at the insistent finger the prince was drumming against the book he still held to his chest.

Soma must have read the question in Agni’s pale eyes because he said, rather matter-of-factly, “This is a western play I found in the library upstairs.”

Agni didn’t know what to be more surprised of—the fact that Prince Soma had been reading a western play, or the fact that Prince Soma had been reading to begin with. (One heartbeat later, Agni bit his tongue in chastisement for his demeaning thoughts.)

Agni debated on what would be a proper response to such a declaration—a play? a fictional western play?—before reluctantly settling on, “A play, my prince?” He succeeded in keeping the fatigue out of his voice only through extensive practice done in the past.

Soma held out the volume bound in hardcover, grinning like he had made a discovery worthy of a hefty award. Agni took it, albeit haltingly, and passed an inquisitive hand over the smooth cover; there was no title, no indication of what was inside. He felt his master’s attentive gaze boring into him, urging him to look inside, and Agni hesitated a moment longer before prying it open.

The opening page served to be as plain and unassuming as its cover; the type was gray—Agni suspected that only black ink could fade into such a dingy color—and unimpressive, the words scrawled about the page haphazardly, like an artist who had flung paint onto a white canvas on impulse; the letters jutted out threateningly, and in a sick, eerie way resembled broken bones, sharp and crooked.

Agni repressed a shiver that had little to do with the darkening sky, and glossed over the title, trying his best not to let the jagged letters distract him. “The First Part of the Tragedy of Faust,” he murmured slowly, trying to get the pronunciation down. Soma nodded enthusiastically, hazel eyes gleaming brightly, and Agni felt like he was under the limelight.

“Sir,”—how was he going to put this gently but rationally at the same time?—“this is fiction. It’s…well, it’s fake. I don’t think this can be considered proof.” Agni flipped through the pages to get a glimpse of something that could relate Sebastian to not being human, but was deterred by the strange, poetic language. He was adequate in reading English, but this language was—well, truly characteristic of a western play.

Soma huffed and shot his butler a very distinct frown. “It’s about a scholar being charmed by evil,” he announced rather proudly. Then, as an afterthought, he quickly muttered, “At least that’s what I understood. I was taught English in the palace, but this text is truly something else. It amazes me that Ciel can understand something so wordy...”

Agni sighed inwardly and willingly handed the play back to his prince, no longer wanting to look at the haunting, helter-skelter text.

The prince’s gaze abruptly became appraising. “Ciel isn’t stupid. I don’t think he would’ve hired Sebastian if he knew about his, um…” He gestured with his hand, reaching for the right word, before poorly settling on “…inhumanness.”

“Besides,” he went on, narrowing his eyes in contemplation, “I don’t see why Ciel would want to sell his soul to evil.”

Agni began fiddling with the bandages binding his right hand: a nervous tic. Soma was still watching him, still appraising him with a look of fierce, no-nonsense determination that made Agni hesitant to meet his eyes. It was amusing, in a strange, bizarre way how the prince wore his naivety like an invisible cloak that could be discarded or donned as he see fit.

“You’re wondering why Ciel hired him then.” The prince was being unusually perceptive. It was a statement, not a question. Agni nodded, once; he still couldn’t believe he was actually having this conversation with his master while they lived under the roof owned by said “child.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Soma asked him, gesturing towards the play like the answer was written on the cover. “Sebastian—and that’s assuming his name really is Sebastian—must have done something to Ciel, tricked him somehow. Ciel’s a child no matter how he carries himself, or what being the Queen’s Watchdog demands of him. He’s an earl, but he’s a child first. Plus, Sebastian is crafty. I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to seduce Ciel somehow.”

If he had not already given the play back, Agni was sure he would have dropped it then and there. Seduce? The word put an all-encompassing picture of Sebastian, Ciel, and the tiny earl’s fingers knotted into his butler’s devastatingly black hair into Agni’s head, prompting him to cough despite having no real need. His face suddenly felt very warm.

The prince was watching him with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Sir, you seem to have, um, put quite a bit of thought into this,” Agni observed. He rubbed the back of his neck to relieve some of the tension there. “But I hardly think the play is enough to prove that Mr. Sebastian is definitely not a human, even with all his miraculous feats. I admit that he is unlike any human that I have ever met before”—he recalled the time Sebastian had managed to knock him down with the cork from a champagne bottle—“but that doesn’t mean he’s not a human.”

“Agni, Agni, Agni,” the prince intoned, shaking his head like a mother who was disappointed by her child’s behavior. He beckoned his butler closer with a finger. Agni leaned in, watching with raised brows as Soma glanced around furtively.

“Sebastian writes with his left hand.” He whispered it like it was secret.

Agni blinked. “Left hand?” he echoed uncertainly. “I’ve seen him write with his right hand before. Perhaps he uses both? Does it make a difference?”

By the way Soma sighed heavily and sat back in the armchair, Agni was sure he had said something he should not have—or should have said something that he didn’t. “Do you remember when we first came to England, and there was an old woman standing next to one of the Christian churches, preaching about evil?”

It took him a moment, but Agni recalled the wrinkled woman with the oddly bent back. (It reminded him of the sharp lettering from before, twisted and bent this way and that.) She had been dressed in black from head-to-toe, her gloved hands clutching a crucifix close to her chest, wailing something about “The Evil One.” (At the time, Prince Soma had referred to the woman as a religious lunatic, but Agni didn’t bring that up.)

Soma was still assessing him.

“Yes, I remember,” Agni told him.

“Well, she said that anyone who is evil uses their ‘unclean hand,’ which is the left hand,” the prince explained, taking on a schoolmasterly tone that he must have picked up from his professors in Bengal, “and Sebastian happens to be left-handed.”

Agni shifted uncomfortably on his feet. While living in Bengal, he’d heard stories about how criminals were punished for their crimes by having their right hands cut off. He hadn’t understood the significance of it at that time, but if the left hand was truly believed to be the “unclean hand,” then having their right hand severed would be the ultimate punishment; they would be forced to use that other hand for everything, tainting anything they touched.

But Agni had seen Sebastian use his right hand, so the man was clearly not quite as evil—

—and since when did his fellow butler, his friend Sebastian Michaelis, fall into the category of “evil” to begin with?

Agni shook his head to clear it, and though he didn’t voice his thoughts, wondered if Prince Soma’s sudden misgivings about Sebastian’s humanity stemmed from whatever grudge he seemed to be holding against him. Agni didn’t have to be especially alert to know that his prince and Sebastian were at odds with one another, despite the latter’s cheerful attitude. He suspected the altercation had occurred while he had been away from the Phantomhive Manor, while staying with West and preparing for the curry battle; the possibility of the rift being his fault—he should have been there; it was his job to take care of his god, but things had gone so, so wrong at West’s estate—made Agni’s stomach knot into a lump.

“Have you noticed that Ciel hasn’t attended church once while we’ve been here?” Soma suddenly asked, bringing Agni back to the present. “I find that odd, don’t you? There are many churches in England.”

“Perhaps Master Ciel is not very religious,” Agni suggested quietly.

“Ciel doesn’t own a copy of the Christian Bible either, but he owns”—the prince held up the play like it was evidence—something like this, where evil corrupts the good.” Agni did not like the direction this conversation was taking. I wonder if Sebastian has something to do with this went unsaid, but was understood nevertheless. Agni had to admit that the prospect of Sebastian forcing his master to abandon all religious affiliations was disconcerting—but unlikely, because why would that benefit him?

“Sebastian doesn’t take care of Ciel as seriously as he should, either,” Soma continued. Again, he had changed the subject, and Agni’s mind was rapidly derailing with his efforts to keep up. There were too many loose ends, too many things left unsaid.

“Remember when Ciel got a stomachache right after the curry battle?”

Agni remembered this in vivid detail—the tiny earl doubled over, his sweat-drenched hair hanging close to his face as he vomited pieces of the half-digested chicken onto the marble floor. He nodded grimly.

“Sebastian put him to bed, and the next day Ciel talked Sebastian into letting him out of bed,” Soma reflected bitterly. “Ciel said he had to take care of businesses expenses, that he was feeling perfectly fine. Well, he hadn’t looked perfectly fine. He’d looked pale and sickly, and Sebastian—his butler—had agreed to let him walk around.” The prince brought his hands down hard against the sides of the armchair, raking the cushion with his nails. Agni flinched a bit at the sound.

“You, Agni.” The prince shook a finger at him to emphasize his point. “You would never have allowed me to get out of bed if I was sick. I know you think he’s a better butler than you are, but that’s a lie! Sebastian will never be as good a butler as you are, and you won’t admit it because you’re too humble.”

Agni held up his hands in front of him and quickly shook his head. There was no way that he—he, who had once been a sinner, basking in his own iniquity—could ever be compared to someone as perfect as Sebastian Michaelis: Sebastian, who made even the most mundane tasks seem extraordinary with his own unique grace; Sebastian, who worked flawlessly, excelling in any area of expertise; Sebastian, who was the quintessence of what it meant to truly be a butler.

“Oh no, my prince,” he murmured, smiling weakly, feeling utterly unworthy of the praise. “Please don’t say that. Perhaps Mr. Sebastian just didn’t think on it because Master Ciel was too insistent on getting up. I really do believe he is a much more talented butler—”

“There,” the prince cut in, nostrils flaring like he had just heard something repulsive. Agni closed his mouth, dumbfounded and a little confused. “See what I mean? You’re too humble, Agni. No, actually, I take that back. You’re kind.” Soma smiled a little, gratefully.

“Sebastian may seem to be perfect, but you have something that he doesn’t have. You have a heart.” And Agni prayed he meant that figuratively. “Sebastian is…insincere. I don’t think anything he does—whether it be cooking, cleaning, or waiting on Ciel—is genuine. It looks and feels forced.”

Prince and butler lapsed into silence. Agni paused to consider what his prince had told him. Sebastian is insincere. He should have dismissed the thought already, but Agni wasn’t so sure anymore; now that he really thought about it, he got a nagging feeling that there was more than meets the eye.

Of course, he was not questioning Sebastian’s expertise as a butler (expertise?—that went without saying) but there were a few things that bothered Agni, like the times when Sebastian actually appeared to be enjoying his master’s discomfort; he masked it well by keeping his face impassive, but the smug satisfaction never failed to dance across his scarlet eyes, darkening them momentarily before they stilled and hardened into the perfect pretense. Other times, the corners of his lips would curl just the slightest bit, forming a sly smirk that questioned where his true loyalties rested.

And Agni had to admit that Sebastian’s speech occasionally took on an air of superiority. There was something he’d said absently after Agni had brought up a cup of green tea for the earl to drink: “Green tea is said to be particularly healthy for humans.” Agni hadn’t thought about it too much until now. He remembered in alarming detail the haughty smile displayed across Sebastian’s face; the unnatural flicker in his eyes as he had looked at the tiny body of his afflicted master; and the cool, matter-of-fact edge his voice had taken on—nearly hinting that he was not referring to himself as a human, but merely observing.

“Do you think he’s inhuman, or do you think he’s corrupt?” Agni heard himself ask in a faraway voice. He tacked on a hasty sir after a moment’s pause, mortified at having been so forward.

He’d spoken before his mind had had a chance to catch up with him; this wasn’t what he had wanted to ask—not like this, anyway. He’d only wanted clarification, but in the process had made it sound like he had become suspicious of Sebastian’s mortality, too. It was true that there were a handful of things about Sebastian that failed to add up, but Agni hardly felt these misgivings proved that Sebastian was not human. Deception was not limited to otherworldly creatures, after all.

“I think he’s inhuman and corrupt,” Soma corrected, just what Agni had been afraid of. “To be honest,” the prince hesitated, biting his lip, looking upset, “he reminds me of the rakshas. You know, the demons from Hindu mythology? He could be one. They play with their food before devouring it.”

Agni was taken aback at that; the prince must’ve been incredibly serious to liken Sebastian to one of the rakshas—to a demon who was the epitome of evil; who was incredibly strong; who relished in bringing disorder, terror, and total panic to innocent human beings before feasting on their flesh. The thought of Sebastian wanting to consume his master’s pale skin put a horrible image in Agni’s head—of broken, bloodied bones with bits of flesh still clinging to them; the sickening chomp of sharp teeth biting into skin and grazing against bone; the slurp that came from the consumption of warm, red blood from torn and bruised skin; that mind-numbing scream of agony, of “No, it hurts! Sebastian, please stop—”

“Agni?” It was Prince Soma’s voice, clear and real and a godsend that dispelled the gruesome image festering in Agni’s mind. He blinked and passed a hand over his forehead, forcing the image out of his head altogether.

The prince looked wary. “Are you…? I didn’t think you would take it so hard. Sorry.” He shifted in the armchair, looking a little remorseful. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said it outright like that. It’s just occurred to me that I’ve never seen Sebastian eat.” Of course, he meant human food.

“Have you ever seen Sebastian eat or sleep?” Soma inquired quietly. “Your room is next to his in the servant’s quarters, so you would know better than I do. Back at Ciel’s main estate, Sebastian didn’t take meals with the rest of his staff,”—Soma paused, and then admitted, grudgingly, “but that’s probably because he’s the head butler. I’ve seen him eat a few times, but only when he needed to taste something, like curry for the battle.”

Well, no. Agni did not once recall seeing the butler eat anything, save for the occasional sampling while preparing meals for the earl. But surely Sebastian took his meals sometime during the day; perhaps he preferred eating alone, content with his own company rather than the company of others. (Agni suspected that Sebastian did not find the Phantomhive staff to be as enthusiastic and charming as he did. Quite the contrary, actually.)

Agni wracked his brain for a way to respond. “I can’t say that I’ve seen Mr. Sebastian sleep, my prince,” he said, deflecting the subject away from Sebastian’s eating habits, “as he doesn’t retire until the help has went to bed. When we were living in Master Ciel’s main estate, Mr. Sebastian put the master to bed and prepared what was necessary for the next day.” The ambiguity was not intentional; this was the succinct explanation Sebastian had given him. “By the time he would retire to his room, I was usually asleep.” He felt a little ashamed and he didn’t know why. “He always woke up earlier than everyone else to prepare breakfast, too.”

“I see,” Soma snorted.

Agni hid his hands behind his back so that Soma could not see him fidget. He had, admittedly, been to Sebastian’s room once. It had been well after midnight, and Agni, restless and unable to sleep, had noticed the oil in his lamp needed to be replaced. (He’d made it a habit to sleep next to lamplight—a reminder of his rebirth from a sinner to a new man with a new life, a humble servant to his master and god.)

So Agni had crawled out of bed and quietly tiptoed to Sebastian’s room, feeling guilty (and a bit foolish) for having to wake Sebastian up to get more oil for his lamp. Sebastian had opened the door before Agni had had a chance to knock, not looking the least bit surprised, and had motioned for him to come in with a gesture that, well, had looked too grandiose to be sincere, now that he thought about it.

Upon entering, he’d found himself standing in a room of pitch black darkness. The curtains had been drawn shut, not permitting even a crack of moonlight, which Agni had found strange, but not unheard of. Sebastian had seemed amused, chuckling softly, teeth gleaming white against the stark darkness as he’d murmured an apology and crossed the room with remarkable grace, movements fluid and catlike as he lit a candle with a single flick of his pale wrist.

Agni had been quite confused to see Sebastian still wearing his uniform, save for the tailcoat that he had draped across his bed—a bed whose covers had not even been lifted. “I am not tired tonight,” Sebastian had informed him in a clipped tone that hadn’t matched his cheerful expression. Agni had not stayed long, feeling awkward standing there in a tunic with tousled hair while Sebastian had looked as sharp as ever. Instead of showing him where the spare oil was kept, Sebastian had lit his own lamp and given it to Agni, insisting that he not worry about changing the oil until the morning, and had proceeded to bid him a polite but somewhat curt good night.

“Damn it,” Soma muttered. Agni looked up quick enough to see his master throw the play at the farthest corner of the room with surprisingly good marksmanship, earning an unceremonious thud as the volume met the floor.

“Agni, come here.” It was an order, clear and concise. He made no eye contact with Agni, only glared at the play like it was some kind of unholy abomination.

The severity in Soma’s tone surprised him. But Agni obeyed and dutifully knelt in front of his prince, as reverent as a knight before his king or a clergyman genuflecting before an altar. He stared solemnly at the jeweled sandals adorning his master’s feet, wavering slightly as he felt the prince finally turn to look down at him.

“You will help me protect Ciel,” Soma instructed. Agni met his prince’s gaze and succumbed to the intensity in his hazel eyes. “You may not believe what I said about Sebastian” (Agni swallowed guiltily) “because you consider him a friend. That’s fine. I don’t care if you consider Sebastian a friend because first and foremost you are my butler, Agni,” he marked his words by leaning forward so he was eye-to-eye with Agni, staring at him intently, “and you will follow my orders.”

Agni didn’t know to respond, at a complete loss for words under the ferocity of his master’s gaze. His legs felt weak, and he reached out a hand to balance himself. The prince must have noticed because he sighed heavily, like he was torn and suddenly very, very tired. “I just… I want to protect that boy from him, and I need your help to do so. Agni…” His voice lost some of its earlier vehemence and softened into something more imploring than aggressive, but the intensity in his eyes was still there, reminding Agni of the flame burning in his oil lamp.

“You have always remained by my side even though I took you for granted. You put the well-being of a foolish, bratty prince before your own.” Soma grinned then, slowly and deliberately. “I want to do that for Ciel. I want to be there for him because I know—don’t ask me how or why, Agni, but I know—that Sebastian is not what he needs. That boy needs a friend. I want to rescue Ciel from loneliness like you rescued me. I want to make him smile.” His voice was firm with purpose.

“Help me, Agni.” The prince reached over and grabbed Agni’s hand, his Right Hand of God, and held it securely, almost reverently, in both of his hands. Agni looked on in a daze, trying to figure out what to do as all the loose ends from before suddenly seemed to come together. “Help me watch over Ciel. Help me try to sever whatever hold Sebastian has over him. Do this for me, Agni. Please.” His grip on Agni’s hand tightened, his nails digging urgently into the bandages at the back of his hand.

How could he say no? How could he possibly refuse such an earnest request made by this avatar, his savior, who was looking into his eyes with alarming desperation? He may not have believed everything—not fully, at least—but if agreeing to help protect the earl would put his master’s mind to rest, then…

“Jo ajna,” he vowed, nodding once. He didn’t know what he was promising or what protecting Ciel would entail, much less if he could do it. But he could not say no. “Your wish is my command.”

“No.” Soma brought Agni’s hand up so it was held possessively over his heart. Agni could feel his prince’s heart hammering unsteadily under the fine silk of his kurta, and it made him uneasy. “I want your word. Promise me, Agni.”

“I promise.” (Could he match Sebastian? And if he couldn’t, would that be a sin?) He brought his left hand up to give his master’s arm a reassuring squeeze; it was too forward, too bold, not proper and certainly not in a butler’s aesthetics, but the prince looked so frantic… “I swear to it,” he murmured solemnly, bowing his head, “my prince, my master…” …my god.

“Excuse us.”

And there came that lilting voice, calm and collected, forcibly polite with a hint of artificiality and a touch of amusement for balance. Agni could have swore he felt a cold finger trace down the column of his backbone, a sharp nail grazing against his skin. He carefully pulled away both his hands and straightened, turning his attention over to the master-and-servant duo standing in the doorway.

“Are we, ah, interrupting something?” Sebastian inquired.

“I was having a word with my butler,” Soma snapped back with alarming ferocity, visibly miffed.

Sebastian looked mildly surprised. “Forgive me,” he apologized smoothly while Ciel inspected his townhouse carefully, his one visible eye glossing over every nook and cranny. He appeared faintly surprised, if not relieved, that the house was still standing, as pristine as ever; he poked the corner table with his cane, like he was expecting it to collapse in on itself.

“We did not hear you come inside,” Agni explained hastily. He added, with forced cheeriness, “Welcome!” in hopes of alleviating some of the tension; he looked askance at his prince, who was still glaring daggers at the other butler.

Sebastian smiled mysteriously but said nothing, instead proceeding to remove the overcoat from his master’s tiny shoulders. Ciel sneezed, his head jerking forward with such force that it threw locks of his ash gray hair into his face. He brushed them back quickly with a gloved hand, looking annoyed and put-off.

“My, my,” Sebastian intoned, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “The young master must have his hair trimmed. Such a shabby appearance is most unsuitable for a count.”

At this point, Agni didn’t know what to make of Sebastian’s tone; he sounded concerned, but it was more of a snide concern than anything, like he was mocking his master. While Sebastian busied himself with hanging Ciel’s hat and cane on the coat rack in the foyer, Agni snuck a glance at the prince master; his eyes were sharp, and Agni worried what would happen if the prince acted out.

“Just cut it tomorrow,” Ciel said offhandedly, appearing entirely too indifferent at the whole affair. “I’m tired, and I just want to go to—”

“Cieeeel! I’ve been meaning to tell you some of my ideas for your company,” the prince interrupted in an energetic flurry of words. His eyes had softened considerably, sparkling with childlike charm. Agni blinked, watching in bewilderment as Soma bounced up from the armchair and all but hopped towards the earl, throwing an arm across his shoulders with a friendly grin.

Sebastian looked more amused than Agni considered appropriate when Ciel’s eyebrow twitched; he shrugged the prince’s arm off his shoulder. “What ideas could you possibly have for my company?” he inquired blearily.

Soma appeared undeterred by the earl’s obvious lack of interest. “Since the English seem to be so taken with our culture now that the Anglo-Indian murders have been put to a rest”—Agni’s right hand twitched, and Sebastian turned the full intensity of his gaze upon him, smiling pleasantly—“why doesn’t your company start selling more Indian products? Like…” Soma rolled up his sleeve, revealing an arm decorated with elegant peacocks, delicate lotuses, and long-winding leaves. “…this!”

“You have tattoos,” Ciel deadpanned, clearly making an effort to look unimpressed. Agni smiled inwardly. “I doubt the good people of England would appreciate their children getting tattoos done. They would have my head, and I am rather fond of where my head is situated at the moment, thank you.”

“These aren’t tattoos,” Soma corrected haughtily. “This is mehndi. It’s not permanent. It’s temporary.” Cue the schoolmasterly tone once again. “You see, a paste is made from a special plant called henna, and that paste is painted onto the skin. The color darkens depending on how long you choose to leave the paste on. If you leave it on overnight, you usually get a color like this.” The prince turned his hand palm-up so the burnt sienna color showed more prominently. “It can remain anywhere from a couple weeks to a few months.”

Ciel looked skeptical, but Sebastian leaned in for a closer look. Soma seemed close to flinching. “May I ask who did this for you, Prince Soma?”

“My butler,” Soma stated with a possessive edge. “Agni has incredible attention to detail.”

Agni was sure only he could understand the double meaning behind that, the subtle way his master had emphasized the word my, but he thought he saw a mixture of humor coupled with awareness in Sebastian’s piercing eyes.

“Ah,” Sebastian observed coolly. Again, the too pleasant smile. “This is very well done, Mr. Agni.” Agni smiled unconvincingly, too distracted by the foot his master was tapping against the floor to conjure up a suitable response.

“Can we stop with the pleasantries?” Ciel asked wearily. “The point stands that the lords and ladies will not want this done on their children. It’s an allergic reaction and a disaster waiting to happen.”

“It has a dual purpose and serves as a dye. The English women can use it in their hair,” the prince suggested enthusiastically, rolling down the sleeve of his kurta.

Ciel looked at Soma like he had just sprouted another head. Sebastian cleared his throat, obviously trying not to laugh.

“I am tired, and I want to go rest,” the earl said emphatically, and perhaps to avoid any more discussion, added, “My decision still remains.” He took a few steps towards the staircase and cast an annoyed look over his shoulder.

“Well, aren’t you coming, Sebastian?”

“The young master did not ask,” Sebastian pointed out cheerfully.

Agni had a feeling Ciel’s patience had been worn thin, too thin, and was teetering precariously on the edge of a hysterical fit; he didn’t understand why Sebastian was testing his master’s patience like this.

“But I still have other ideas!” Soma insisted.

“Later,” Ciel dismissed.

Soma looked insulted. “Fine,” he muttered in a huff, “we’ll just discuss it tomorrow.”

Ciel was a fourth of the way up the stairs, Sebastian following close behind. “Whatever.”

“I would like to remind the young master that Marchioness Middleford and Lady Elizabeth will be visiting tomorrow,” Sebastian said calmly. “I have already made the necessary arrangements for their arrival here in London.”

Ciel’s expression went from intensely annoyed to fiercely distraught. “The Marchioness is visiting tomorrow? She’s coming here?—but she’s supposed to come to my main estate!”

“Ah, yes,” Sebastian conceded, “but as you requested to come to London, I had to rectify that. The Marchioness was adamant in her request to personally congratulate you on receiving the Royal Warrant.”

Ciel gritted his teeth together. “Why didn’t you check with me first?”

“But I did, Young Master,” Sebastian told him, his eyes flashing an alarmingly bright shade of crimson. “If I recall, you waved me aside and told me to do whatever was suitable. I was merely following orders.”

Agni looked on feeling worried and helpless, wanting to do something to help though he knew it was not his place to do so. Soma seemed curious more than anything, actually looking pleased at the altercation.

The earl whipped his head around fiercely, all but snarling as he said, “You should have taken the initiative to mention this before we left.”

Sebastian smiled smugly. “I regret to inform the young master that he did not—”

“Shut the hell up.”

Sebastian bowed deeply and placed his right hand over his heart, the hallmark of elegance. “Pardon me, my lord.” He did not look the least bit contrite.

Sebastian’s irreverence left Agni unsettled…but this man was his friend, so he deserved the benefit of the doubt, didn’t he? Agni went through the possible reasons in his head: perhaps he was not feeling well—or it had been intentional altogether, possibly the result of a poorly executed joke; and there was always the possibility that his patience had become strained (because Sebastian was a human after all, and a human’s patience was not limitless)…

Even Agni knew that his rationalizations were second-rate at best, but he wouldn’t admit it to himself—not even when his prince looked over at him with a grim expression that read See what I told you?

“So,” Soma started conversationally, eyes flicking back and forth between the furious earl and his complacent butler; the two were staring at each other intently, engaged in some kind of wordless conversation that made Ciel’s cheeks flush to match the red of Sebastian’s irises. “Who are those people? Do you know them, Ciel?”

Sebastian was the first to look away, the corner of his mouth twitching as he seemed to relish in his victory. “Marchioness Middleford and Lady Elizabeth are the young master’s relatives,” he explained curtly. By the way he pressed his lips into a thin line and darted a glance over to Ciel, Agni suspected there was more to it than Sebastian had admitted.

“Relatives?” Soma repeated, looking absolutely delighted. “Agni and I must meet them! It’s only appropriate, since I am your best friend—”

“You are not meeting the Marchioness,” Ciel declared with absolute finality. “You two will stay in your rooms and not make any trouble.”

Soma scowled and crossed his arms. “We’ll see about that, kid.”

Ciel exchanged smug looks with his servant, the rage apparently having come to pass; the relationship between the two was more complex than Agni had thought. “Sebastian will make sure of it,” Ciel countered confidently, smiling mischievously; his butler stood with both hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed but smiling smartly.

“Please don’t underestimate Agni,” Soma retorted, tilting his head towards his servant; Agni was again shoved underneath the limelight. “He’s more than a suitable match for your butler.” Agni met Sebastian’s unnerving gaze, keeping his face expressionless even when the other’s smile became a smirk.

The smile promptly fell from Ciel’s face. “I don’t want a repeat of what happened with Scotland Yard,” he warned, eyeing Agni sharply. “Keep your babysitter in check, Soma.”

Agni looked away; the embarrassment of Sebastian thwarting his efforts to turn himself into the authorities threatened to stain his cheeks red.

Soma was smiling merrily, like a child who was about to get his way. “I’ll try,” he said unconvincingly.

Ciel glanced up like he was hoping an answer would fall from the ceiling, like anything would be better than having to negotiate with the prince; after a pause, he conceded with a sigh. “If I agree to let you prattle on for a few minutes about your ideas for my company, will you both”—his gaze momentarily came to rest on Agni—“leave us alone tomorrow?”

The prince was absolutely glowing. “Promise.”

Ciel crinkled his tiny nose, obviously displeased that he was being forced to compromise. “You have thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes?” the prince echoed incredulously. Agni murmured his name respectfully, trying to placate him while also trying to ignore the smirk plastered onto Sebastian’s face.

“At least an hour or two,” Soma tried again.

“Thirty minutes,” Ciel maintained.

Soma put a hand on his chin and considered this for a moment. The silence was taut enough to be sliced with a blade. “One hour,” the prince settled on; he rushed on when Ciel opened his mouth to object, “One hour and Agni and I will leave the house tomorrow morning. We’ll return at dusk, when your relatives have left. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?”

It did; it sounded surprisingly fair, though Ciel did not seem willing to admit this. He appeared rather close to sulking, or wanting to hit something—or both. “Fine,” the earl relented grudgingly. “One hour, and then you leave me the hell alone tomorrow.”

Soma grinned triumphantly and bounded up the stairs two at a time, golden earrings clinking and twinkling impressively. Sebastian stepped aside to allow him to pass, now smiling politely. Agni did not fail to see the suspicion that passed over his master’s face as he moved past the butler. Ciel looked utterly apathetic, yawning idly and wearing an expression that asked Can we get this over with?

“You won’t be disappointed,” Soma promised, ruffling Ciel’s full head of hair affectionately. Agni smiled a little.

The earl pulled away and made a feeble attempt at rearranging his hair before giving up with a sigh. “Tch,” he grunted noncommittally. “Just make it quick. Your hour starts now.”

“If I may add,” Sebastian started, smoothing into the conversation; he glanced apologetically at Soma, who clamped his mouth shut resentfully. “I will bring the young master a cup of warm milk once I finish straightening up downstairs.”

“And a muffin,” Ciel added.

Sebastian was still smiling, and there was a faint glitter of fondness (yes, that was fondness and fondness alone) that put Agni at ease. “Certainly, my lord.”

Ciel waved a hand flippantly and began trudging up the stairs, idly glancing behind him to see Soma still transfixed near the banister; he shrugged and proceeded undeterred, wearing a trademark look of indifference.

“Agni.” The boyish cadence of Soma’s voice could not belie his call for his butler’s full and undivided attention. “Please stay here and help”—he faltered, visibly—“Sebastian with the cleaning.”

This, of course, all translated out to: Agni, keep an eye on him. I am counting on you.

“I will, my prince,” he reassured him, finding it remarkably easy to smile this time around. And it was at that instant, when Prince Soma’s eyes glittered like gold dust and his smile became the embodiment of all that was pure and holy and good, that Agni saw with perfect clarity the god his master kept buried inside. Agni etched that smile into his memory like it was a woodcarving.

“You’re down to fifty-eight minutes,” Ciel droned apathetically from the top of the stairs.

The saintly image wasn’t dispelled when Prince Soma swore and dashed up the stairs, wearing a pained expression as he told Ciel, “That’s not fair.” And when Ciel snorted and haughtily pointed out that it was the prince’s fault for dawdling, he found the voice obscure and faraway—irrelevant, like a blade of grass catching the breeze. But when he finally tore his gaze away from the banister, Agni found himself immersed in a fiery gaze so unlike Prince Soma’s. The finger was against his back again, unrelenting this time as it crept underneath his skin, raking its nail against the very bone of his spine.

“The townhouse has been kept well,” Sebastian observed, mercifully releasing Agni from his piercing gaze. He ambled down the staircase with the grace of a gentleman, his gloves ghosting over the railing.

There was no tangible reason for Agni to have still been watching him, but he was (and he told himself he really, truly could look away when he wanted to; being attentive was what Prince Soma had wanted him to do). There was something oddly fascinating about the way Sebastian carried himself, Agni realized, perhaps not as surprised as he should have been. It didn’t just stem from Sebastian’s perfect posture—not merely from the way he stood with squared and confident shoulders, chin held high enough to be bordering on audacity—but rather the way he never seemed to be perturbed, not even marginally flustered. Sebastian was never frantic because he had absolute confidence in his abilities to get things done on time, without fault. This was a trait that Agni, as a fellow butler, should have envied more than he admired.

“This makes my job much easier, you know,” Sebastian remarked cheerfully, now leisurely making his way into the parlor room.

Agni wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I’m glad,” he tried, the strain ringing clear and true in his tone. He winced at the sound of his own voice.

Sebastian’s lips lifted into a somewhat dark smile. He leaned against the opposite wall of the room, uncommonly casual as he folded his arms across his chest. He regarded Agni with a look that could have meant anything. Or nothing at all.

“I am under the impression that I have upset Prince Soma somehow,” Sebastian said, though he hardly looked troubled.

Agni clenched his jaw but managed to keep his face blank. “Please rest assured that you have not upset Master Soma,” he responded promptly, telling himself it wasn’t a lie. You haven’t upset him. He just thinks you’re inhuman, a demon hell-bent on driving your master mad and then feasting on his flesh. “I’m sorry if it seemed that way.” He bowed his head, raising his hands and bringing them together in a compulsory, too severe apology.

When Sebastian didn’t respond right away, Agni peered up at him over his fingertips. His posture was relaxed and somehow elegant at the same time, casual but compelling. “You apologize far too much, Mr. Agni,” he chided, neglecting to address the matter about the prince altogether. Agni nearly apologized again, but caught himself and held his tongue.

Sebastian was still smiling when he pushed away from the wall with his elbow, angling his shoulder towards Agni subtly enough to be a distraction. He inspected the surrounding area with speed that could only have been achieved through time and practice. Agni shifted on his feet when his eyes happened upon, and then lingered curiously on, the play that had been cast aside by Prince Soma.

“That is…” His curiosity had peaked; he arched a slender eyebrow, walking towards the distinctly out-of-place item with long and perfectly measured strides. He tucked in his coattails before stooping down to retrieve it, favoring, Agni noted with a glimmer of surprise, his left hand over his right. He ran a gloved forefinger over the cover, a strange look passing over his face.

“This is from the young master’s library,” Sebastian murmured absently; for a moment, his eyes seemed to flicker from their usual red to a pitch black. A lock of dark hair came loose from behind his ear and fell with stark contrast against his pale skin. Sebastian did not brush it away, and Agni almost wished he was close enough to sweep it back himself.

He flexed the fingers of his right hand and cleared his throat. “Yes,” Agni agreed easily enough. “I hope you don’t mind. Master Soma was reading it earlier today.”

Sebastian finally tucked the strand of hair behind his ear. (Agni exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.) His gaze touched Agni’s as he stood with the book in hand; he cocked his head to the left, one finger pressed to his temple. “Prince Soma was trying his hand at reading this, was he?” Sebastian inquired with poorly disguised disbelief; in fact, he seemed overly amused and dangerously close to chuckling.

Agni visibly stiffened at “trying his hand.” Naturally, Sebastian did not let this go unnoticed; he grinned slowly and with entirely too much audacity. “I did not mean to offend,” he clarified, somewhat gently. Agni found this hard to believe. “I was merely surprised. I had no idea Prince Soma enjoyed reading western tragedies.”

He didn’t enjoy it. He’s using it as proof that you’re diabolical. Agni lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck; he stopped at the last instant, realizing it made him look a little dodgy. “Master Soma found it quite…interesting,” he commented vaguely.

“Did he then,” Sebastian remarked; he regarded the play with an odd look. “It‘s one of the most renowned works of German literature, written by the late Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.” The name rolled off his tongue expertly, with a brand of ease and perfection that Agni knew he would never be able to emulate.

“Out of curiosity, how did this end up in the corner?”

This was the question Agni had been dreading. He smiled, discomfiture on clear display. “The prince dropped it,” he said quickly—a little too quickly, he realized when it was too late. The cover-up was terribly unlikely; there was no way Prince Soma could have dropped the book so that it landed directly in the corner—unless he was reading it in the corner, which was ridiculous in itself.

Sebastian’s eyes flicked to the corner and back. “Ah, is that so?” He obviously didn’t believe him, but he didn’t press for information either. Agni didn’t know what was worse—the distrust, or the forced politeness.

“Have you read it before?” Agni asked, hastily changing the subject, trying to keep their conversation from going awry. “The play, I mean?”

Sebastian traced Agni’s profile with his eyes. “I am quite familiar with the story,” he admitted cryptically. Agni had to look away from his probing eyes, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute. A simple “Yes, I have,” would have sufficed. (There was an instant where Agni thought he’d caught a whiff of burning flesh, of broken bones drenched in coppery blood, sticky and as brightly colored as Sebastian’s irises—)

“Did Prince Soma happen to mention the story to you?”

The question sounded innocent enough, purely conversational, but… “No.” Agni coughed, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “Not really.”

“It’s quite a tale,” Sebastian acknowledged with a single nod, “with an underlying message that you, of all people, would find rather interesting.” His eyes were ablaze, the flames licking first at Agni’s ankles, and then his calves, slowly, mercilessly creeping upwards.

“You see,” Sebastian went on, completely impassive to the growing terror that Agni knew was creeping into his expression, “the play begins with the devil—Mephistopheles, as he is called—striking a bet with God.” There was something sinister about the way Sebastian’s mouth hardened around the word God, something that made Agni’s legs feel like dead weight. “Mephistopheles insists that he is powerful enough to lead astray God’s favorite and most faithful follower, a scholar named Faust. Mephistopheles proceeds to pursue Faust, who is battling his own inner demons”—Agni’s eyes widened slightly at this; Sebastian’s eyes gleamed in return—“for lack of a better phrase, of course.”

“Of course,” Agni muttered grimly. Since coming to Europe, he and Prince Soma had learned the basics of Christianity—of the devil being the embodiment of all that was evil in the world. Hell was the devil’s domain. Unlike their idea of Naraka, Hell was not a temporary purgatory where the wicked were cleansed of their sins; it was a realm where those unworthy of salvation suffered for their sins in an endless cycle of pain, agony, and the “weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

“Faust is confronted by Mephistopheles,” Sebastian continued, the corner of his mouth curling, “who promises to show him the unimaginable, and pledges his loyalty. The two make an arrangement. Mephistopheles agrees to do the scholar’s bidding on Earth, but in return Faust must serve Mephistopheles in Hell.

“‘Here to thy service I will bind me—
Rest and repose I’ll sacrifice for thee;
And when in Hereafter I shall find thee,
Why thou shalt do the like for me.’”

Sebastian did not have the play opened; he was reciting the passage from memory, in a voice colored with the polished sophistication of an aristocrat. Agni was more startled than impressed; Sebastian looked far too comfortable—as if he knew the meaning of the excerpt and everything that it encompassed all too well, like he was an expert.

“Faust adds an additional clause: if Mephistopheles gives him a moment so satisfying, so inexplicably perfect that Faust wishes for it to last forever, only then will he die and give his soul to the devil. And thus, the contract is formed—signed in Faust’s own blood.” Prince Soma’s explanation had been vastly simpler, so much less troublesome. Agni pressed his knee into the side of the armchair to steady himself, his discomfort exceeding all bounds.

Sebastian gauged his reaction, gaze flitting over Agni’s trembling hand; he instinctively hid the hand behind his back, trying to keep his features rigid but aware he was failing miserably. Sebastian raised his eyebrows, looking somewhat surprised.

“I had no idea this was troubling you so much, Mr. Agni,” he said apologetically. “I did not mean to talk for so long. I merely thought you would be curious. Forgive me.”

“I… It’s not—” Sebastian had not glanced away once since his narrative of the play had started, and Agni was beginning to feel flustered. “Not at all, Mr. Sebastian. Really, it’s just…”

“Just?” Sebastian prompted calmly.

Truthfully, Agni wasn’t sure what to say. There was a small part of him that wanted to know how the tale ended—if this Faust had found salvation, or if his soul had been bound to the devil for eternity—but a larger part that didn’t want to provoke Sebastian.

“I find it difficult to believe that the scholar could’ve been led awry so easily,” Agni said quietly. “If he was as faithful as you said, how could he have been turned away from good completely?”

“Temptation,” Sebastian answered meaningfully, like the word should have been explanation enough. “Time and time again, temptation has been the downfall of humanity. Humans are weak creatures, easily susceptible to being lured in by false promises and crafty manipulations. They only want answers that can satiate their morbid curiosity. It’s this weakness that leads to sin.” Again, the purely observational tone with the myself excluded undercurrent that Agni was starting to dread.

“Pride, envy, wrath,” Sebastian began listing without provocation, “sloth, greed, gluttony, and lust.” Agni forced himself not to read into the subtle stresses Sebastian had chosen to put on a few words. “Christians refer to them as ‘The Seven Deadly Sins.’”

Sebastian’s eyes were too aware, too piercing, like he could see into every hidden part of Agni’s soul—back to his so-called “life” before Prince Soma, when he had spent his days seeking solace in his drunken stupors and his evenings murmuring sweet lies to dirtied women. Agni passed a hand over his chest in a vain attempt to hide a hole that wasn’t there.

Agni looked at him with some uncertainty. “How can you be positive that everyone has felt each of these emotions?”

“Oh, I can’t be positive,” Sebastian said equably, with a close-eyed, indulgent smile, “but from experience, I can tell you that the chances of a human not having experienced one of these sentiments—in some form, at some point in their life—are highly unlikely.”

Experience? Agni thought to himself uncertainly. Despite what he’d told him, Sebastian’s tone had implied that he’d seen this enough times to be reasonably certain. But how could he have? Sebastian appeared to be in his early twenties, nowhere near old enough to be at this level of “experience.”

“What do you think, Mr. Agni?” Sebastian inclined his head to the right, cloaking half his face in darkness and giving it a cruel, pointed sharpness that Agni had not noticed before. “Is a god’s most faithful disciple impervious to all temptation?” He took a step towards him—slow, calm, and calculating; it would have looked purely innocent if not for the telltale smirk that flitted across his lips, the way his eyes narrowed just the slightest bit. “Can he really not be led astray?”

Agni knew the question concerned him directly; there was no mistaking the artful cadence of Sebastian’s voice. He should have been on his guard after all that his prince had warned him about—corruption, evil, demons—and everything he had observed since then. Sebastian had not tried especially hard to make a worthy appeal for himself either; if anything, he had only made matters that much more difficult for Agni with his too casual posture, distracting gestures, and intense gazes. Sebastian’s knowledge of the play, which had wavered dangerously between mere familiarity and absolute expertise, and his alarmingly descriptive account on sins and their link to temptation had not shed light on the subject either. It was almost as if he was encouraging the doubt—relishing in it, even.

And now Sebastian was walking towards him, each step laced with a dark and haunting purpose, the two-inch height difference between them suddenly inconsequential.

The nature of the questions should have wiped away the doubt Agni still clutched protectively to his chest like a badge of courage. But he could not believe Sebastian Michaelis was evil. He wondered what the prince would make of his indecisiveness. Prince Soma had already resigned himself to the fact that Agni didn’t agree with him completely, provided that he help protect Ciel and keep an eye on Sebastian. And so far, Sebastian had not posed a direct threat to anyone or anything, so technically his uncertainty was justified, wasn’t it?

But Agni knew, deep down, that this was just vain justification for something he didn’t understand (and didn’t want to understand). Agni didn’t know why he still trusted Sebastian; perhaps it was because of his unparalleled expertise as a butler, or his brilliant sparring abilities, or his culinary skills—

Sebastian had stopped in front of him, the armchair the only thing between them; and at this unnervingly close angle, Agni could see each defined feature of Sebastian’s face: the slant of his nose, the sharp prominence of his chin, the thick black lashes that framed his too red eyes, and a smirk that drew attention to his painfully white teeth.

—or maybe Agni simply didn’t want to believe Sebastian was evil. He didn’t want to believe Sebastian’s clean-cut appearance was a front for something sinister. He didn’t want to believe that something ominous lurked behind Sebastian’s gaze. He didn’t want to believe someone so perfect was ungodly.

Sebastian breathed, his cool breath brushing against Agni’s neck. Agni shivered—not unpleasantly, he realized. “You have not answered my question.” And he should have listened to the voice of reason that was screaming at him to look away now instead of silencing it. Sebastian’s sudden nearness was making Agni’s heart pound erratically against his chest; and for a fraction of a second, he had the absurd desire to grab him by the arm, pull him forward roughly, and…

Sebastian smiled knowingly, the lock of black hair falling loose once again.

Agni closed his eyes just as Sebastian began undoing the carefully stitched threads of his self-control.

════

Part 2

death note | 999 paper cranes

diluted_thought — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 22:04:54 GMT

Title: 999 Paper Cranes
Fandom: Death Note
Rating: R, for imagery.
Characters/Pairings: Mikami Teru. Musings of Naomi. Mikami → Naomi.
Warnings: Imagery. Dysfunction. Some coarse words.
Word Count: 1,140
Author’s Note: There isn’t much for me to say, other than I cannot believe it is already 02.07.2010.

He thinks of her during his descent into madness.

It’s unreasonable and he knows it, but he doesn’t really care; perhaps solitary confinement purges all sound reason from a man’s body, and that is why he is unperturbed by the fact that his back is pressed to a grimy floor, and that he is staring up at a ceiling that has only three light fixtures.

It occurs to him—

(as he feels the flesh from his cheekbones begin to bubble and then slide off his face into a disgusting heap next to him)

—that he hasn’t thought of her for years. He has no idea what’s happened to that newspaper clipping of her death now that he has been locked away in this limitless black hole. He wonders if the authorities have kept it as evidence against him, or have simply dismissed it as some kind of sick fantasy and thrown it away.

The idea of them throwing it away makes him feel angry—

(his eyeball is rolling out of its socket, and there are a thousand little ants attacking it, as the queen ant perches herself atop his cornea like it’s some kind of fucking throne)

—and that is the first tangible emotion that he has felt since being locked away in solitary confinement. In a way it’s almost refreshing, which makes no sense at all, but all sense was lost when he lost his savior. Or maybe he’d never had any sense to begin with. Maybe it was just the illusion of sense brought on by having blind faith in...

What is this?

Where am I?

Where is my mother?

(his teeth are next, exploding out of their roots and shattering, leaving his mouth a painful, bloodied mess)

It takes him a moment to remember that his mother is dead, and has been dead for quite some time. He doesn’t care. He finds it sickly amusing, really. He hopes she is watching him writhe in his own skin and sick and blood and feeling guilty. But that’s assuming that she loved him, and he was never really sure if she did. Maybe she just kept him around because he looked like his father. She never did remove that wedding ring—

(there is a knife cutting chunks of his flesh from his body and throwing them aside, and now the ants are burrowing inside the holes like his body is their new colony and fuck now he can feel them moving inside of him, laying their eggs, hatching, dying, repeat)

Ring. Finger. Hand.

He remembers touching that woman’s hand, soft, smooth, and delicate. He can’t remember how she looks like, exactly. But she was not unpleasant to look at. She had lovely teeth, that much he can recall, straight and even and such a glittering shade of white that he wonders if she might’ve bleached them. She must have been beautiful.

(the boil on his large toe erupts and sends blood and pus flying all over the cell, and the ants are latching onto the creamy mixture like it has nutritional value)

She was with a man. Her fiancé. He must have thought she was beautiful also. A twinge of envy shoots through his body—

(and electrocutes some of the damn ants)

—and he realizes that she probably lived with that man, sharing the same house and room and bed. He shouldn’t care about her personal life. It should make no difference to him who she slept with. He never had a claim on the woman.

(his hand balls into a fist, trapping some of the ants and causing the others to go berserk, picking away at his rapidly deteriorating body)

But he does care, because somehow the idea of her with another man throws large inkblots onto the image he’s painted of her. He thinks of her naked, with her body slick with sweat and that man on top of her. It makes him want to wretch.

(but there is nothing in his stomach besides the ravenous ants that are eating away at his putrid innards)

For a fragment of a second he puts himself—his real self, not this broken shell—in place of the other man, and now it’s his chest that she is running her hand across and his name that she is whispering and suddenly it’s all better—

(the queen has begun growing in size and she’s cackling at him like he is the fallen hero and she is the victor)

—but then the image is gone, and he is left feeling dirty and ashamed. Maybe that’s why he is being punished, for thinking these things of her. But who is the punisher? There is no divine being delivering righteous judgment. There never has been.

(his ear joins the goop of flesh on the floor, and the ants are crawling into his head now, relishing in the brain tissue)

Mikami-san, she had called him, so gently, so reverently. He hopes, yes, he hopes, that one of the criminals he deleted was her murderer. Somehow that would make his life less meaningless. She was a good woman. She had to have been. He will not die holding her in low esteem because that would be unreasonable. So he shuts the lids over his eyeless sockets and tries to imagine how she looked—

(but it’s so difficult, with the ants clicking their antennas and scratching at his bones to get to the precious bone marrow)

—and for a single second he remembers: the dark hair, the sad eyes, the fair skin, the shampoo that smelled like a fruit whose name he still didn’t know. She’s looking away from him. He’s bitterly ashamed of how disfigured he must look. But he can’t stop himself from reaching out to touch her hair. It’s soft, and smooth, and—

—suddenly it’s a clump of his own tangled, sweat-and-blood soaked hair that he is touching.

He panics, flinging the useless clump away and pressing the palms of his hands back to his eyes. He tries to bring her image back to his mind, but by now the ants have infiltrated every part of him and he can see nothing but their disgusting antennas and sadistic expressions and the fucking queen who is suddenly as large as a rat is squishing his eyeball with her weight as she continues to grow and—

He screams then, a shrill, agonizing cry. It’s not for help because his body is being ravaged by millions of insects. It’s not for his mother to envelop his maimed body and protect him. It’s not for a god to grant him salvation and a second chance.

But it’s for that woman, for Naomi, to always remember him as he once was.

Forty-one minutes later, Mikami Teru is found dead in his cell.

The cause of death is never disclosed.

[wizards of waverly place] justin/alex banner → for ann-sophie

diluted_thought — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 06:59:25 GMT

Happy birthday to my amazingly terrifically darlingly awesome Ann-Sophie! By my time zone, it's still not your birthday; I meant to have this done earlier, but I wasn't able to because I was out most of the day. Please be expecting an epically long email in your inbox in the near future. I hope your birthday is (or was) incredibly fantastic, full of much love and hugs and cake and presents! You know that I love you very, very much. ♥ Have an amazing year!

death note | que será será (for viola)

diluted_thought — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 00:30:33 GMT

Title: Que Será Será
Fandom: Death Note
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: teenage!Kiyomi, teenage!Mikami. teenage!Kiyomi → teenage!Mikami.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1,066
Author's Note: A ficlet for my darling Viola on her birthday, which is tomorrow (or today, depending on where you live. Your time zone may vary. XD;) ♥ I hope you have a fantastic day, and I love you!

Arriving at school late was not how Takada Kiyomi particularly liked starting her mornings.

She had avoided receiving detention only by citing the 99% she had gotten on the last math exam. Mr. Akihiko—her stern-lipped, no-nonsense math instructor, complete with a receding hairline—had relented, but not before tacking on an ominous, “It better not happen again.” To make matters worse, her pen had decided to throw a tantrum and had promptly exploded in her hand during science class, throwing large, angry inkblots all over her notebook and making most of her notes indecipherable. The cuffs of her otherwise immaculate white blouse had not evaded the ink barrage either, and were still sopping wet from her attempts to scrub away the ink. At lunch, Kiyomi had discovered that, in her hurry, she had forgotten her lunch at home; she had subsequently spent the entire lunch period in the library, battling a grumbling stomach, until her best friend had scouted her out and offered her a Bento box—and then the bell had rung.

No, Kiyomi was not having a stellar day.

At present, her hair was plastered to her forehead and was prickling against her neck; a large part of her wanted to cut it short so she wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore, but she couldn’t imagine wearing it short after having it long for so many years. Kiyomi switched her too heavy backpack from one shoulder to the other, her blouse sticking uncomfortably to her back, as she navigated through the subway terminal. The bright lights and chatter made her feel nauseated, and she pushed past the throngs of passengers to the benches. Most of the seats were filled (unsurprisingly, with the luck she was having), and only one still had enough room left for her to sit; it was next to someone that appeared to be a teenager—by the look of him, one of those despairing, emotionally withdrawn teenagers who was convinced their life was a dark room.

She generally disliked those types of boys, the ones that could not deal with their emotional baggage and resorted to shunning humanity instead. As if they were the only ones with problems. If she wasn’t so tired, she would have gladly stood, but the noise was making the blood pound in her temples and the last thing she wanted was to pass out in a subway terminal.

She approached him blank-faced to mask her uneasiness. To her surprise, he had a textbook opened next to him, and was diligently taking notes in his notebook; an eraser, ruler, and yellow highlighter were lined neatly, from shortest to longest. Kiyomi cleared her throat to get his attention—it was common courtesy to ask if she could sit, and she didn’t want to run the risk of him having an outburst—but he did not look up; most of his face was masked by the dark, choppy layers of his hair, and she nearly rolled her eyes.

“Excuse me,” she said levelly.

He stiffened almost imperceptibly; his hand shook just the tiniest bit, the mechanical pencil digging into his notebook. He was clearly annoyed, and this made Kiyomi almost want to smile.

He still did not look at her when he unenthusiastically responded with a “Yes.”

“May I sit here?” she asked him coolly.

He was silent long enough for Kiyomi to half-expect him to tell her no she couldn’t, and to get the hell lost when he suddenly began rearranging his stationery supplies, moving it towards him to give her more room to sit.

He raised his head and looked at her almost appraisingly, brushing the hair out of his eyes in apparent irritation. Kiyomi was surprised to see the black-rimmed glasses on his face, and the pristine white dress shirt underneath the black overcoat. He was a student. Probably a few years older than her. But still, he was just an average student. Like her.

Okay, so, maybe she had misjudged him—and maybe he was not so unpleasant to look at.

He went back to his notes, retrieving his ruler and drawing a perfect line down the page with surprising speed. “You can sit here,” he told her unequivocally, brown eyes darting over the page as he began making a diagram to the right of his margins.

“Thank you,” she said curtly. As she took a seat, Kiyomi decided not to get distracted by the fact that he was somewhat (undeniably) attractive.

She put her backpack down onto the floor with an unceremonious thud, and he turned to her, looking absolutely horrified. His eyes were locked onto the floor where her backpack was, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly clamped it shut and looked away. Kiyomi thought it was kind of cute.

“Were you going to say something?” she asked lightly.

“No,” he responded quickly, too quickly. “It’s just, well, the floor is kind of dirty, and you put your backpack down and just—er, nothing. Forget it. Sorry.”

Kiyomi almost started laughing. Did this guy have OCD or something? For a moment, she had the insane urge to hug him.

They sat in somewhat amiable silence for a few moments, and she distracted herself from the cacophony of the terminal by focusing on the sound of his pencil making sharp, quick scratches across paper as he continued his notes.

“You can remove those ink stains, you know,” he said, suddenly. She glanced at him, and he looked just as surprised that he had spoken as she did. “Just use some rubbing alcohol and a cotton swab. It should take them right off.”

She had actually been planning on using hairspray, but the fact that he was offering advice was very sweet. Kiyomi thanked him, and he pursed his lips, promptly returning to his notes without any further comments.

Five minutes later, Kiyomi decided she really needed to stretch, and accidentally knocked his highlighter from the bench onto the floor. She apologized, but he was too busy scrambling to catch the highlighter before it hit the floor to acknowledge her. Kiyomi used the diversion as a chance to lean over and read his name from the notebook.

Mikami Teru was written in flawless, obsessive perfection at the top of the page.

Kiyomi smiled to herself, and decided the day hadn’t been a complete loss after all.

fst | whatsername

diluted_thought — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 07:00:08 GMT

Now I present the Ms. Mikami FST that the awesome Nana requested on this meme ~~a long, long time ago. XD;~~ I'm so sorry this took so long. I would have gotten it done earlier, but life got in the way...and then my AC Adapter went out of whack last week and my laptop wouldn't work and I couldn't access Photoshop. ;;;; So, here's to finally finishing it! Unlike my other FSTs, this is a little jumpy. There is no set theme, and some of these songs can be considered Mikami's father → Ms. Mikami, while one focuses on Ms. Mikami's need for someone who cares, and another on how teenagers scare the living shit out of her. ~~Wow, that's totally not a spoiler.~~

♪ Unwritten Law : Shoulda Known Better ♫
(Technically Mikami’s father → Ms. Mikami)

Abortion clinic, I shoulda forced the issue,
But she did it with the hanger and some tissue.
Don't cry, dry your eye (she said)
I'll be back on my feet tonight (she said)
I'll be walking the street tonight (she said)
‘Cause these arms gotta eat tonight.
Then we made love, like a couple of drunk buffalo, was I rough enough?
It was the last time I'd ever see her
I'd try to thank her, with gonorrhea.
But then she split, and stole my sweater,
Dude, I shoulda known better.

I, I shoulda known better
Nothing lasts forever, yeah, lasts forever
Shoulda known better.

♪ Green Day : Whatsername ♫
(Technically Mikami’s father → Ms. Mikami)

Remember, whatever
It seems like forever ago.
Remember, whatever
It seems like forever ago.

The regrets are useless in my mind,
She’s in my head.
I must confess, the regrets are useless in my mind,
She’s in my head.

From so long ago and in the darkest night
If my memory serves me right,
I’ll never turn back time
Forgetting you but not the time.

♪ The White Stripes : Conquest ♫

And then in the strange way things happen
Their roles were reversed from that day
The hunted became the huntress
The hunter became the prey.

Conquest
Now you know who made the conquest
She with all her female guile,
Led him helpless down the aisle.
She had finally made a conquest.

♪ My Chemical Romance : Teenagers ♫
(So, Ms. Mikami is evidently creeped out about her son.)

Because the drugs never work,
They’re gonna give you a smirk
‘Cause they’ve got methods of keeping you clean.
They’re gonna rip up your heads,
Your aspirations to shreads
Another cog in the murder machine.

They said all teenagers scare the living shit out of me.
They could care less as long as someone will bleed.
So darken your clothes, or strike a violent pose
Maybe they’ll leave you alone, but not me.

♪ Depeche Mode : Personal Jesus ♫

Reach out and touch faith.

Your own personal Jesus
Someone to hear your prayers,
Someone who cares.
Your own personal Jesus
Someone to hear your prayers.
Someone who's there.

Feeling unknown
And you're all alone,
Flesh and bone
By the telephone.
Lift up the receiver,
I'll make you a believer.

in which i post...drabbles

diluted_thought — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 02:25:54 GMT

Title: Sketches (In Which Mikami Teru Finds Himself A God Who Falls Asleep On The Job)
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Mikami (recurring); Ms. Mikami; Watari, a reference to L; Gevanni; Light (twice), Yuri; Namikawa, a reference to Higuchi; Naomi; Sachiko, and Sayu; some hints at Gevanni/Mikami; Namikawa/Mikami → Higuchi; Mikami/Naomi; and Mikami/Delete Key. (No, really.)
Warnings: Some language, sexual content, themes and imagery. Nothing heavy.
Word Count: 10 × 100

Author's Note: The only recurrent theme between all of these drabbles is that Mikami is present; they are not in chronological order, and are from various points in the series. (I was going to tack on where each drabble roughly fits in during the series, but I decided not to; If anything needs to be clarified, please let me know.) The title was created with the help of a few very good friends, and the song Knights of Cydonia by Muse. Okay, enough of my jibber-jabber. XD; Written for dn_contest, Week #63 - Drabble.

Key Fixation

It was imperfect.

It was his fault that the text on the key—his blissful, glorious, sacred key—had faded, rendering the word almost impossible to read. His slender hand flitted over his keyboard in a panic. It needed to be fixed. This key brought him one step closer to aiding in the eradication of all that was unholy in the world. He brought a pale forefinger across it, gently, reverently. The key glistened with such urgency that a low, hoarse gasp formed at the back of his throat. With an unsteady grip, he wrote down a single reminder:

Delete.

Birthday Wishes

“Happy Birthday, Teru.”

Her son wiped his nose with a tissue and disposed of it in the trash can. (He never used his tissues more than once, and this was her pet peeve; but she wouldn’t bring it up today—not on his birthday.) He peered at the cupcake she had placed on his nightstand. (She didn’t tell him that it was a leftover from work, because what sort of mother was unable to bake her child a decent birthday cake?)

“Thank you, mother. Did you make it yourself?”

She shifted guiltily. “No, honey.”

Teru promptly began nibbling on it.

Customer Satisfaction

It was not his job as a cashier to question customers on what they were buying; Mikami had seen his fair share of eccentricities—a teenage boy purchasing a girl’s magazine, a man surreptitiously paying for sanitary napkins, and a college student buying strawberry-and-vanilla flavored condoms (Mikami had no idea those flavors even existed)—but he felt the need to interject here because this was devastatingly unhealthy.

“These sugar cubes are not just for eating, I assure you,” Mikami was told matter-of-factly, “My protégé enjoys building with them.”

Mikami proceeded to bag the groceries, and bid the spectacled man a good day.

Divine Intervention

He had his nose buried into the newspaper (he had gotten it for free—one of the perks of working at the grocery store), carefully rereading each paragraph twice in case he missed something. It was like this Kira—this sanctifying advocate of all that was just and fair and true—knew what he prayed for, what he wished for in the depths of his heart. He had gone from believing it was pure coincidence to labeling Kira as a renegade angel from Heaven; but now Mikami knew that Kira was much more than that.

To Mikami Teru, the killings were divine intervention.

Questionable Circumstances

At age twelve, Mikami Teru decided he was never going to have sex.

He had never given the topic much thought in the first place—he remembered how horrified he had been to learn how babies came into the world (he had went home that day and demanded to know if his mother had had a Caesarean Section)—but now he had no choice. The process, he thought, was too messy. What if something didn’t fit right? What if he got stuck?

Now, at age twenty-seven, as he caught the eye of a blue-eyed man across the subway, Mikami wasn’t so sure.

Ignis Fatuus

When Yuri began relaying the tragic story of how her brother had shoved her favorite teddy bear down the toilet when she was five, Light deftly tuned out to scan the headings of a nearby newspaper stand instead. A headline paraded across the title page—KIRA: HOMICIDAL MEGALOMANIAC OR JUSTICE INCARNATE? YOU BE THE JUDGE.

He smiled inwardly, watched as a fair-skinned student with glasses frames that matched the color of his dark hair leaned in to read the article more closely. “Kami,” he muttered, and Light had to tune back into the story just to keep from laughing with delight.

Diplomatic Endeavors

Namikawa Reiji was not pleased that he was the one meeting the attorney, but Yotsuba had agreed that he was the most suitable in the diplomatic sense. (Higuchi had volunteered, but giving that dumbfuck a chance was a death wish.)

“Who is that?” Namikawa asked, gesturing to the figure behind the copy machine.

“Mikami Teru. My intern.”

The intern looked up, and Namikawa smiled at him invitingly, only to be met with an icy glare in return. He took the blow with surprising grace and mentally told this Mikami Teru that he was lucky Higuchi Kyosuke had not come instead.

Transportation Woes

Mikami Teru did not like public transportation.

It was a filthy haven where pathogens thrived and allergens abounded. If he had the money, he would have bought himself a vehicle—something modest but efficient—but he was barely affording law school. He wrinkled his nose; a boy was shaking the cat hair off his jacket, and it was driving his sinuses crazy. He sneezed just as the train jerked to a precarious stop and collided with the leather-clad woman next to him.

He murmured an apology, she offered him a tissue, and Mikami decided that perhaps public transportation wasn’t all that bad.

Chance Encounter

There were two others in the terminal—a mother and daughter, by the looks of it. The mother looked anxious (her eyes were red and swollen) while the daughter (seated in a wheelchair like a lifeless doll) stared at him blankly. Mikami shifted in his seat, looked down at his briefcase.

Someone arrived and asked the pair if they were ready to go—the son, Mikami guessed, by the way he swiftly took hold of the wheelchair, murmuring to the doll and the doll’s mother.

Mikami caught his intense gaze for a fraction of a second before the trio departed in silence.

The Fear

His worst fear had always been Tuberculosis.

Just wash your hands, his mother used to tell him. But what the fuck did she know?—how did that apply now, as he sat in solitary confinement, with blood trickling down the sides of his mouth? The warm, coppery fluid burned his throat as he coughed up another mouthful, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes stinging with tears. His mind was telling him that this was an illusion, but how could coughing up blood be an illusion?

Mikami Teru screamed and felt his vocal cords shred to bloody pieces with the effort.

obligatory ficlet for mikami's birthday is obligatory!

diluted_thought — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 07:34:59 GMT

Title: Birthday Wishes
Fandom: Death Note
Rating: G
Characters: tiny!Teru, Ms. Mikami.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 100
Author's Note: Written for Mikami Teru’s birthday, which is today, June 7th!

“Happy Birthday, Teru.”

Her son wiped his nose with a tissue and disposed of it in the trash can. (He never used his tissues more than once, and this was her pet peeve; but she wouldn’t bring it up today—not on his birthday.) He peered at the cupcake she had placed on his nightstand. (She did not tell him that it was a leftover from work, because what sort of mother was unable to bake her child a decent birthday cake?)

“Thank you, mother. Did you make it yourself?”

She shifted guiltily. “No, honey.”

Teru promptly began nibbling on it.

death note | slut!mikami colorbar

diluted_thought — Wed, 20 May 2009 03:23:23 GMT

This is an obligatory slut!Mikami colorbar I made for my darling Nana for her birthday! ♥ You're an insanely talented writer and an awesome friend and a sweet daughter. I'm so glad to have met you! -Hugs!- ♥♥ HAVE A HAPPY BIRTHDAY. ~~MAY MIKAMI SEX YOU UP TO OBLIVION. XD~~

Rules:
[ + ] If you plan on snagging this, please let me know! ~~Comments are epic~~.
[ + ] If you choose to upload this onto your own server, please remember to change the URL of the image.
[ + ] Do not remove the credit. ~~Mikami will totally refuse to have sex with you, and we don't want that,~~
[ + ] Please enjoy! ;D

Copy & Paste The Following Code
<center><a href="http://diluted-thought.livejournal.com/44521.html#cutid1" target="_blank"><img src="http://i281.photobucket.com/albums/kk201/diluted_thought/MikamiCanBang.jpg"border="0"></a></center>

icon post : death note + doujinshi | yuugiou | the sarah connor chronicles

diluted_thought — Sun, 17 May 2009 03:51:11 GMT

Death Note
→ Yagami Light × 3
[Doujinshi: A Temporizing Impression]
→ Namikawa Reiji × 3
→ Namikawa Reiji + Midou Shingo × 2

Yuugiou
→ Kaiba Seto × 7
→ Ishizu Ishtar × 7
→ Kaiba Seto + Ishizu Ishtar × 2
→ Siegfried von Schroider × 2
→ Seth × 1
→ Seth + Isis × 3

Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
→ Cameron × 4
→ John × 15
→ John + Cameron × 3

DEATH NOTE

001 002 003 004 005

006 007 008 009 010

YUUGIOU

011 012 013 014 015

016 017 018 019 020

021 022 023 024 025

026 027 028 029 030

031 032 033 034 035

TERMINATOR: THE SARAH CONNOR CHRONICLES

036 037 038 039 040

041 042 043 044 045

046 047 048 049 050

051 052 053 054 055

056 057 058 059 060

R U L E S
[+] Please do not hotlink! Upload them to Photobucket or something of the like.
[+] If you plan on using any of these icons, please credit me.

[+] Please comment if taking, because that would be supremely awesome. ;D
[+] Enjoy them! ♥
For credits and resource information, please go here.

fst | aquarius

diluted_thought — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 03:32:40 GMT

This is the Michel FST that my very darling Ann-Sophie requested on this meme. Michel is a fictional ~~badass vampire that could totally beat up Edward Cullen just by staring at him and willing away the dreadful sparklies~~ vampire from Companions of the Night by Vivian Vande Velde. ♥ I really, really hope you enjoy it, love! ^^ I had a lot of fun with it! =D Duh, of course, it's MICHEL. XD;;

♪ The Rasmus // Immortal ♫
(Michel→Kerry)

Surrender to my love,
Sacrifice your soul.
Your picture in the frame
Is fading like a ghost.

Never say goodbye,
Never be alone.
Never say good night.
Never say die.

Drink this blood,
And we’ll become immortal, baby.
This love is breaking the one last bond.

♪ Within Temptation // Aquarius ♫
~Orchestral Version~
(Kerry→Michel)

I relinquish to your powers.
From your grasp, I just can't hide.
I missed the danger I had to conquer.
You made me feel alive.

They say I have to be aware,
That one day you won't let me go.
(I'll drown, you'll take me down.)

I need you Aquarius,
Enchanted I will have to stay.
I feel you Aquarius,
‘Cause you the sea set me free.
You call to me Aquarius.

♪ 4LYN // Nostalgia ♫
(Michel→Kerry)

Just one sign is all I want
To move on where we started from.
I've tried as hard as I could try,
Not even sure you're still alive.
What's with all that we once shared?
Please forgive me but I care.
I scream as loud as I can scream,
But you don't hear me.

No, I will never know
‘Cause you're somewhere
Where I can't go.
A million miles away,
Or right here next to me.

I've tried so many times
To find the home that once was mine.
A million miles away,
Or right here next to me.

♪ Massive Attack // Teardrop ♫
(Michel↔Kerry)

Love, love is a verb
Love is a doing word
Fearless on my breath.
Gentle impulsion,
Shakes me, makes me lighter,
Fearless on my breath.

Teardrop on the fire,
Fearless on my breath.

Nine night of matter
Black flowers blossom.
Fearless on my breath.
Black flowers blossom
Fearless on my breath.

♪ Kevin Kern // Another Realm ♫

[instrumental]

this icon has never been more appropriate

diluted_thought — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 03:46:33 GMT

Title: Quite Absurd
Fandom: Death Note
Rating: PG
Characters: Mikami Teru, mentions of Kira and Edward Cullen.
Warnings: Twilight bashing.
Word Count: 100
Author's Note: A drabble for my darling Harley on her birthday! I hope you like it. Clearly, you know where I got the inspiration. XD;

He thought it was quite absurd.

In his opinion, the ashen skin was appalling, the “topaz” eyes were unrealistic, and the skin of granite that was cold as ice?—impossible. But worldwide, he was a phenomenon; women were infatuated with this fictitious bloodsucker who sparkled in the sun, whose skin was “the skin of a killer.”

He wondered if the latter was an oblique reference to Kira; he did not like how fiction was perverting what he believed to be justice-incarnate.

And as such, Mikami Teru found himself writing down the name Edward Cullen in flawless script into his Death Note.

fst | stiff martyr

diluted_thought — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 04:25:01 GMT

This is the Mikami FST that Lycoris requested on this meme. I had a lot of fun with this one. ♥ Some songs are sort of directed at Light from Mikami's point-of-view, but I hope that's okay? I hope you enjoy it! =D ♥

♪ The Rasmus | Night After Night (Out of the Shadows) ♫

Like an angel you came
(Every time when I prayed.)
Guardian of my dreams
(Watching me when I sleep.)
Like an angel you came
(Every time when I screamed.)

Time after time, I lose again
Night after night I wake up
Shaking ‘cause my world is breaking.
I’m fool enough to fail again
Night after night I wake up
Crying ‘cause I feel like dying.

Still disconnected,
And unprotected.
Still I’m haunted,
But unwanted.

♪ The Illuminoids [Blaqk Audio vs. Depeche Mode] | Stiff Martyr ♫

I've been a martyr for love
I need to be by your side.
I have knelt at your feet,
I have felt your deceit,
Couldn't leave if I tried.

I've been a martyr for love
Tortured every hour.
From the day I was born,
I've been moved like a pawn,
By the greatest of powers.

If you show me heaven,
I will meet you there.

I knew what I was letting myself in for.
(That we’ve made an art.)
I knew that I could never even the score.
(Sanctuaries.)

♪ MUCC | Libra ♫
(The lyrics below are tentatively the English translation.)

With your dominant arm, you have desire
With your other arm, you hide immorality.
If you could shut love away deep inside your heart,
The saint in your head will laugh.
The brave flower that grows in the vacant lot
Surrounded by the towering buildings that take away the sunlight rays
People's eyes are glared by these buildings.
Soon, the flower stopped breathing
The wind was only gently caressing
Only the wind was being gentle.

The thing about living, that is
Like wandering in the darkness, not able to see a thing.
The thing about dying, that is, also darkness.
"The end" is no way "the beginning"
That's why we need to light up the darkness now.
Burn up our life and soul as much as we could
After releasing the radiance
The proof of life could not wear out, would become strong.

♪ Atreyu | The Theft ♫

He bends and he breaks,
If he gives they will take away.
His passion, his pain, his grace
He exhales,
A thousand black flowers explode
Into butterflies as they're away.

Rip them out, take them,
Burn to coals as they crush him,
Leave nothing that resembles a soul of a man.
Leave him numb,
Leave him crushed.
Rip them out, take them,
Burn to coals as they crush him,
Leave nothing that resembles a soul of a man.
Leave him numb,
Leave him crushed.

Took the fire inside,
One too many times.
He's burning over and out
As he flails up against the raging tides.
No more sides.
Everything you ever wanted to see,
See it in his eyes.
One more time.
One more time.

♪ Within Temptation | The Truth Beneath The Rose ♫

Give me strength to face the truth, the doubt within my soul
No longer I can justify the bloodshed in his name.
Is it a sin to seek the truth, the truth beneath the rose?
Pray with me so I will find the gate to Heaven’s door.

I believed it would justify the means
It had a hold over me.

Blinded to see the cruelty of the beast
It is the darker side of me.
The veil of my dreams deceived all I have seen
Forgive me for what I have been
Forgive me my sins.

fst | fixation

diluted_thought — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 06:28:39 GMT

Here is my Haruka FST requested by the adorable Glitteringloke on this meme. Most of the songs are kind of Haruka-to-Kantarou centric, but I hope you don't mind! Enjoy, sweetheart! ^^ ♥

♪ Muse – Time Is Running Out ♫
(Technically Haruka→Kantarou)

I wanted freedom,
Bound and restricted
I tried to give you up,
But I'm addicted.

Now that you know I'm trapped, sense of elation
You'd never dream of
Breaking this fixation.

♪ The Rasmus – Lucifer’s Angel ♫

Fly away, fly away
From the torch of blame.
They hunt you – Lucifer’s Angel.
Never lived, you never died
Your life has been denied
They call you – Lucifer's Angel.

On your own, I know you can make it.
Truth or bone, I know you can shake it.
Survive alone, I know you can take it.

♪ The Black Ghosts – Full Moon ♫
(Technically Haruka→Kantarou)

Far far away, no voices sounding,
No one around me and you're still there.
Far far away, no choices passing,
No time confounds me and you're still there.

In the full moon’s light I listen to the stream
And in between the silence, hear you calling me.
But I don't know where I am, and I don't trust who I've been
And if I come home how will I ever leave?

♪ 30 Seconds To Mars – The Kill ♫

I tried to be someone else,
But nothing seemed to change.
I know now this is who
I really am inside.

Finally found myself,
Fighting for a chance
I know now, this is who
I really am.

♪ Vanilla Sky – Break It Out ♫
(Technically Haruka→Kantarou)

Please don’t turn your head,
Please don’t turn your head.
I don’t want you to see what I’m going to be
I’m fading away tonight.

Just break it out,
Just break it out today.
I’m gonna pretend that you never went away.
Just break it out,
Just break it out today.
I’m losing my mind.

fst | tightrope

diluted_thought — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 06:46:27 GMT

This is a Light/Sayu FST that I made for my lovely Sari, who requested on this meme. ♥ I hope you like it! It took me...three? four? days...to make this cover as close to perfect as I could. XD; I hope you like it, love!

♪ Breaking Benjamin | The Diary of Jane ♫
(Light→Sayu)

And I don't mind
If you say this love is the last time.
So now I'll ask
Do you like that?
Do you like that?

No.

Something's getting in the way,
Something's just about to break.
I will try to find my place in the diary of Jane.
So tell me how it should be.

♪ Stephanie McIntosh | Tightrope ♫
(Sayu→Light)

I’d slip my skin and
Lose this face if
We could find a secret place to hide.
Say the words I need to hear,
And I’d leave it all behind.

Oh, I’m walking a tightrope between who I love and what I know
Oh, I’m watching the sharks lick their slips as they circle far be…

I keep slipping back to you and
You’re no good for me.
I keep wanting what I can’t have.
Mr. Freud would you disagree?

♪ Blaqk Audio | The Love Letter ♫
(Disregard the first 26 seconds, and the visuals. XD; This was the clearest audio—and the most normal, visual-wise—that I could find.)
(Light→Sayu)

What could you see?
What could you find?
If we meet please avert your eyes.

What I’d never show,
What you’ll never find is explosive.
So hide your eyes.

What should mean nothing to you
Has left a poison running.
Straight from your lips and into
(lead to)
The poison I’m becoming.

♪ Bayside | Devotion and Desire ♫
(Light↔Sayu)

Trying to create something that's not there.
A spark I saw as a bomb is just a means to an end.
And I was just so happy to be out of my shell again,
I don't think that I really cared for who or what.
So for now I'll just have to keep it shut.

If you're not ready, you're not ready.
Please, stop acting like you are.

How could I know?
That everything you say are lies about devotion and desire?
And I know the spark inside your eyes
Was just the match I used to set myself on fire.

♪ Within Temptation | A Dangerous Mind ♫
(Sayu→Light)

I'm searching for answers
‘Cause something's not right.
I follow the signs,
I'm close to the fire.
I fear that soon you'll reveal
Your dangerous mind.

It's in your eyes, what's on your mind.
I fear your smile and the promise inside.
It's in your eyes, what's on your mind.
I fear your presence, I'm frozen inside.

my new otp. okay, not really, but still.

diluted_thought — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 06:50:22 GMT

Title: Of Tea and Men
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Higuchi/Namikawa; Namikawa, Higuchi, mentions of the rest of Yotsuba and an OC.
Warnings: Language and sexual content. ~~Namikawa being a prissy schoolboy.~~
Word Count: 3,088
Author’s Note: This is a weird take on the prompt, but the plot bunny would not stop eating away at me. XD;

“Talk about shitty luck.”

Namikawa thanked the waitress for his cup of tea, cut his eyes across to his co-worker—and he used that term in its loosest form possible—to see if he would thank her. But no, he was just staring at her exposed leg, probably wondering some lewd thing like how it would feel wrapped around his waist. Namikawa cleared his throat. Unwrapped the napkin on the table and placed it onto his lap.

“What is it, Higuchi?” he deadpanned.

Higuchi looked at him, but Namikawa got the feeling he wasn’t really looking at him. He sighed exasperatedly. (Let me guess, Higuchi, you’re wondering how long it would take you to pummel that woman into your mattress.) “What did Midou say on the phone?” he clarified shortly.

“Oh. That.”—Namikawa placed a finger against his temple, wondered how a dunderhead like Higuchi Kyosuke who had the attention span of a squirrel had become the head of the Technology Department of Yotsuba—“He got caught up at his fencing class, so he’ll be late. Ooi flaked out, something about his arm bein’ sore. Isn’t he heading into his mid-forties?—bet it’s arthritis, the old geiser. I think he needs to retire. He’s not cut out for the job anymore.”

Namikawa dropped two sugar cubes into his tea and stirred them in thoughtfully. “And the rest?” he asked quietly. “Shimura is usually very prompt. This is unlike him.”

“Kida wouldn’t pick up. I didn’t bother calling Takahashi—the idiot probably forgot we were coming here in the first place. Shimura’s caught in traffic.” Higuchi snickered. “Can you imagine him?” he asked in a low voice. “I bet he’s shitting in his pants as we speak, thinking Kira’s going to kill him for being late.”

Namikawa set down his spoon and brought the cup to his lips. “You’re a riot,” he remarked dryly.

Higuchi clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “You know, Namikawa, real men don’t drink tea.”

He placed the cup into the saucer with a dignified clink. Namikawa smiled tightly, trying to make himself appear less annoyed than he truly was; he didn’t want to give Higuchi that satisfaction.

“You know, Higuchi, I don’t recall asking you.”

Higuchi snorted and leaned back in his chair. Took a swig from his mug of coffee. (No, Higuchi did not just wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.) Namikawa felt his fingers twitch underneath the table.

“What the hell has your panties in a bunch?” Higuchi asked offhandedly, flicking something caught under his fingernail onto the table. Namikawa forced himself not to look. “Couldn’t cajole your secretary to your place last night?” he asked lightly. “Did the feminine charm not work, Reiji?”

“This might come as somewhat of a shock to you, but not all men are sex-addicts,” Namikawa pointed out matter-of-factly, taking another sip of his tea. Higuchi shot him a glare. He smirked over the rim of the cup, pleased to be an annoyance to him. “Most of us don’t go around fucking our secretaries in the back seats of our cars. It’s a surprise, I know.”

Higuchi suddenly chuckled.

Namikawa raised a flawlessly plucked eyebrow. “What?”

He grinned, displaying a row of dreadfully discolored teeth. “I didn’t know you cussed, Namikawa,” he said. (Did he look impressed?) “I thought you were too refined.”

Namikawa realized he was smirking again—and it wasn’t forced this time. “Perhaps I caught that infectious disease of yours, Higuchi. You clearly need to get that checked out. It might be a new form of rabies.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Higuchi said.

“What? Are you that fascinated by my sex life?” Namikawa asked him smoothly.

Higuchi leaned across the table, suddenly and uncomfortably close. Namikawa thought he saw a nose hair that needed to be plucked. “I had no idea you had one,” he said silkily. “I thought you swung the other way, if y’catch my drift. You sure do doll up that pretty face.”

Namikawa sat back in his chair to put some distance between them, contemplated if his coffee was spiked with alcohol. “You think I have a pretty face, Higuchi?” he asked, keeping his voice casual. “And you think that I swing the other way?”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he muttered, like he hadn’t heard a thing Namikawa had just said. “I thought you were transsexual when I first met you.”

“Oh?” Namikawa stirred his tea reflexively and crossed his legs under the table. The corner of his mouth twitched and he tried to keep from laughing. This wasn’t bothering him as much as it should have. “What about now? Have I proved your theory wrong?”

“Now I think you’re metrosexual,” Higuchi stated, finally drawing back. “You act really, really dainty though. Just sayin’.”

This time Namikawa did laugh. Higuchi blinked at him, looking like he had just gone mad. He tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear. Higuchi pointed at him and sputtered, “See? That’s what I meant. You’re so friggin’…girly. It’s hard not to think of you as a chick sometimes.”

“Most women find men who take care of their appearance attractive,” he murmured. “Of course you wouldn’t know, Higuchi.” He smiled, rested his chin on his hand, looked thoughtfully at the oaf of a man sitting across from him. “You’re absolutely vulgar.”

“Some chicks like it rough,” Higuchi said flatly.

“Is that so?” Namikawa asked slowly. “Well, let’s see.”

He craned his head around until he saw the waitress from before. “Excuse me, please,” he called politely. He watched as she adjusted her skirt and came over to them, her heels tapping the floor with a flirtatious cadence that Namikawa knew all too well. He resisted the urge to glance over at Higuchi with an I-told-you-so look.

“Can I get you something?” she asked him.

He undid the top button of his shirt to relax the collar a bit, lifted his eyes to meet her expectant gaze. “Could you get me a few more sugar cubes, please?” He deliberately smiled at her, offering a view of his brilliantly white teeth. “I hope it’s not too much trouble…”

She promptly turned a bright shade of pink. “Oh, no, no! It’s no problem!” Her hands fluttered around helplessly, like she wanted to fix something but could find nothing that needed fixing. “I’ll get those for you right away. While I’m at it, why don’t I warm up your tea? It will just take a moment.”

“Thank you,” he told her, pushing the cup in her direction. “That’s very sweet of you.”

It was only when she had left that Namikawa looked over at Higuchi, whose face was scrunched up like a petulant child who was about to throw a tantrum.

Namikawa laughed quietly. “You thought I was lying?”

“I never knew you were so full of yourself, Namikawa.”

“I’m not full of it,” he insisted. “I was simply proving a point—”

“—by flaunting what you’ve got, like that pretty face,” Higuchi finished.

Again with the pretty face thing. Namikawa shifted in his chair just as the waitress arrived with his tea and a dish stacked high with an absurd amount of sugar cubes. She placed the sugar cubes in front of him, and (purposely) leaned all the way across the table to set down the tea. He glanced at Higuchi, who was ogling the waitress’s chest where her neckline cut dangerously low. She frowned when she looked at Namikawa and found that he wasn’t doing the same.

He nodded a thank you and dropped another sugar cube into his teacup. His ring clanked against rim of the teacup and he frowned, bracing himself for what Higuchi was undoubtedly going to say. (3...2...1...)

“Dude,”—Higuchi was staring at the ring with such an intense amount of concentration that Namikawa hoped he didn’t hurt himself—“You’re engaged?”

Namikawa nearly choked on his tea. He gingerly wiped his mouth with a napkin. “It’s not an engagement ring.” He raised his left hand as a testament, suppressed the tempting urge to flip Higuchi off while he had the chance. “It’s on my middle finger, you idiot.”

Higuchi squinted his eyes and peered at his finger. “Is that a…”—he abruptly leaped forward, grabbed his hand and yanked it towards himself for a better look. Namikawa steadied himself and shot Higuchi a glare, revolted at how callous and dry Higuchi’s fingers felt against his palm. He tried convincing himself that, no, that wasn’t dead skin, but failed miserably. Namikawa gritted his teeth together.

“What the fuck is up with that?” he asked—demanded, even. “There’s a heart on it.”

Namikawa pulled his hand away and stared at him. “Yes.”

“If you wanted some bling, you could’ve gotten shit that…y’know…was more manlier,” Higuchi pointed out.

Namikawa felt a muscle in his jaw tighten and untighten. He refrained from correcting his grammar only because he wanted this meaningless conversation over and done with. “I could have,” he agreed, lifting the teacup to his mouth, blowing the tea to cool it. With the way Higuchi gaped at him—how his eyes bulged and how his jaw fell agape and how he began sputtering incoherently (okay, so maybe the latter wasn’t so unheard of)—Namikawa was half-expecting to be asked whether or not he was wearing lip gloss.

“What are you, some kinda pimp?”

(I am not a prostitute’s lawyer, stupid.) He sighed exasperatedly and shook his head. “What are you blabbering about?” he asked weakly.

“That”—and Higuchi pointed at his saucer, at the little piece of paper that had numbers scribbled onto it; clearly, a phone number—“She gave you her number!”

“I see,” he deadpanned. Again.

Higuchi leaned over to grab the scrap of paper just as Namikawa set down his teacup. He didn’t have a chance to avoid the clumsy, intruding hand, and before he had the presence of mind to push his chair back, the teacup and its contents had tumbled into his lap.

Meaning he was now wearing his tea more than drinking it.

He slammed the teacup onto the table. “Damn it, Higuchi,” Namikawa hissed, pushing back his chair with such force that it banged against the wall and made a portrait teeter precariously. stood up and tried to mop up the mess; he gave up when he realized it was just getting worse. “You moron,” he muttered. Namikawa didn’t bother excusing himself to the restroom, or looking at Higuchi and seeing that inevitably hideous grin on his barbaric face.

----

Fortunately for him, the restroom was not too far off and no one was inside. He placed his blazer on the paper towel dispenser—he had brought it along with him to hide the stain from plain view—and untucked his shirt. Turned on the faucet. Ran the hem of his shirt underneath the water. He scrubbed fiercely but thoroughly, trying to wash away all traces of the green tea from his white shirt. At the very least, the tea hadn’t seeped through his pants; the napkin had managed to catch most of it. Still, he would have to get everything dry-cleaned because Higuchi fucking Kyosuke had acted too carelessly, too stupidly as usual. If Kira had killed Hatori, why couldn’t he kill someone as power-hungry and morally corrupt and delusional and moronic as Higuchi? (Unless…)

The door flew open with an intrusive bang. Higuchi walked in. Namikawa wasn’t surprised. He had been half expecting him to intrude; it was like one of those cliché horror films where Higuchi was the villain, and he was the male protagonist trying to save his life and protect everything that was near and dear to him—which, at the moment, meant his sanity.

“Midou’s here,” Higuchi said gruffly. “He can’t stay long. ‘Asked me if I could get you.”

Namikawa didn’t take his eyes off his shirt. “Well, I suppose he’ll just have to wait,” he said shrilly. “Did you tell him that you knocked over tea like a complete and utter jackass?”

Higuchi snorted. “Sorry I made you wet, princess.”

Namikawa forced himself not to read between the lines, disgusted. He turned off the faucet and inspected his shirt critically; the stain was by no means invisible, but it would have to do. Maybe if he tucked it back in and put on his blazer no one would notice. He wiped his hands with a paper towel glanced askance at Higuchi, who was still there.

“Are you waiting to escort me out of the restroom?” he asked sarcastically. “I can find my way back, you know.”

Higuchi was staring at him fixatedly. “Let me guess,” he said suddenly. “Your boxers are made of silk, too, aren’t they?”

Namikawa tilted his head and regarded him carefully. He tried to find an apt response to that—because really, why did he care?—and settled on: “Are you so inclined to find out?” He regretted the words the moment he had said them; even to his ears they had sounded far too flirtatious, too evocative.

And suddenly, before he had a chance to take in just what the hell was happening, he was pushed up against the wall with Higuchi towering over him—which was disconcerting, since he was a good four inches taller than Higuchi.

Namikawa could smell the scent of coffee on Higuchi’s breath. “You really want me to answer that?” he asked him hoarsely. The warm breath tickled his throat. He wished he hadn’t undone the top button of his shirt.

Namikawa was determined to maintain his composure, even as Higuchi’s hand slipped beneath his shirt. “So you swing both ways,” he remarked softly.

“You count as both,” Higuchi said evasively.

Namikawa wasn’t sure what to make of this—he should have been insulted, but he wasn’t—or of Higuchi, who by now had his mouth pressed greedily against his collarbone. No, Namikawa shouldn’t have been condoning this. He should have been prying Higuchi off and calling him a disgusting oaf, but instead he was letting this leech touch him in ways that were anything but conventional. He had seen sexually appealing men before, and Higuchi Kyosuke was not one of them. If anything, he should have been revolted.

He should have been.

But Namikawa had to admit that Higuchi was strangely skilled at this, and if he didn’t look and act so repulsive, maybe he would actually be enjoying this to its full extent.

“Relax,” Higuchi muttered against his skin—which could very well have been the most perceptive thing he had said all evening. “I’m not a rapist or anything.” Higuchi’s palm was teasing his skin with it’s callousness, his fingers raking dangerous patterns against his abdomen.

“You clearly need to invest in lotion,” Namikawa breathed.

Higuchi nipped tersely at his skin and then raked his tongue over it. “You talk too much.”

Namikawa dug his fingernails into Higuchi’s shoulder, pleased when Higuchi winced and gritted his teeth together. “I hope you brushed your teeth.”

Higuchi left his assault on his neck and looked at him levelly. Namikawa was surprised at how dark his eyes had gotten—was he enjoying this that much? “You tell me,” he said huskily. Higuchi leaned forward and shoved his mouth against Namikawa’s in a searing kiss that was rough and obtrusive; his tongue flicked out to meet his, and Namikawa was greeted with the bitter taste of coffee mixed with saliva (and alcohol?) as Higuchi’s tongue glided across his teeth slowly. It was the most unconventional kiss Namikawa had ever experienced, namely because he was not the one in control.

Higuchi’s hand glided down his chest, passed over his abdomen and then gave his belt a meaningful tug. Namikawa made a point in not reacting, and Higuchi—perhaps pissed off at his lack of a reaction or too intimidated—brought his other hand down against Namikawa’s thigh and hooked it against his waist. He pressed their pelvises together. Namikawa felt both his hands twitch against the wall, and could tell Higuchi was grinning against his mouth. He did it again, and this time Namikawa shuddered and had to suppress a gasp. When he did it the third time and increased his tempo with painfully maddening connotations, Namikawa realized he had to stop this before this went too far—father than they already had. He had never been fucked in a bathroom, and he wasn’t planning on making this his first time.

Namikawa bit Higuchi’s lip and simultaneously managed to stomp on his foot. It worked; Higuchi broke the kiss and released him, took a step back and swore loudly. “What the fuck, Namikawa?” he demanded, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Namikawa tried to catch his breath. “My point exactly, Higuchi,” he said critically. “We’re lucky that no one walked in”—it had just occurred to him that this was a public restroom, and it was sheer luck that no one had walked in on them—“Midou is out there. Shimura is probably here by now, too. No doubt they’re wondering where we are. I don’t want them getting ideas.”

Higuchi chuckled and shook his head. “That worried about your public image?” he asked.

Namikawa didn’t answer. He straightened his shirt. Buttoned the collar. Tucked in the green tea-stained hem into his pants. (Yes, that’s why he had been in the bathroom in the first place. It was hard to believe now.) He retrieved his blazer from the paper towel dispenser and put it on. When he looked in the mirror to straighten his disheveled hair, he saw Higuchi staring at him like a predator stares at his prey.

“So I did turn you on,” he observed, obviously quite impressed with himself. “Another few seconds and you would’ve been hard as a rock. I was close to fucking the prime and proper Namikawa Reiji.”

Namikawa turned to look at him. “My one run-in with bestiality, Higuchi. I assure you.” He waited until the words sunk in, and smirked when Higuchi scowled at him. He grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at his mouth, trying to wipe away any excess and unnecessary Higuchi he had on himself.

“I’m going to finish the rest of my tea,” Namikawa announced, “and I’m going to tell Midou, and Shimura, if he’s there, that we’re late because you couldn’t find the restroom. Or you were hitting on the waitress. Whichever. I’m sure you won’t mind.”

If Higuchi had heard any of what he had just finished saying, he didn’t make it apparent. “You’re surprisingly sexy, Namikawa,” he told him.

Namikawa crumpled the paper towel and tossed it into the trash can. “I wish I could say the same for you, Higuchi.”

birthday wishes! ♥

diluted_thought — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 03:17:07 GMT

It's Ishizu's birthday today! (There are some sources that say it's April 5th, but I'm going by the date used by her official fanlisting.) If I had incense at home, I would have burned some for her. Instead I just tried to act very calm and formal ~~and failed miserably.~~ At any rate, I did write another 100-word drabble using the prompt birthday for fanfic100. ♥

icon post : death note | code geass | yuugiou | sharon den adel

diluted_thought — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 03:15:19 GMT

Death Note
→ Yagami Light × 1
→ Mikami Teru × 2

Code Geass
→ Li Xingke × 4

Yuugiou
→ Kaiba Seto × 3
→ Ishizu Ishtar × 2
→ Kaiba Seto & Kaiba Mokuba × 1
→ Kaiba Seto + Ishizu Ishtar × 1
→ Jounouchi Katsuya + Kujaku Mai × 2

Sharon Den Adel
→ Sharon den Adel × 3

DEATH NOTE

001 002 003 004 005

CODE GEASS

006 007 008 009 010

YUUGIOU

011 012 013 014 015

016 017 018 019 020

SHARON DEN ADEL

021 022 023 024 025

R U L E S
[+] Please do not hotlink! Upload them to Photobucket or something of the like.
[+] If you plan on using any of these icons, please credit me.
[+] Please comment if taking, because that would be supremely awesome. ;D
[+] Enjoy them! ♥
For credits and resource information, please go here.

look at me, i finished a fic (on time) for this lovely pairing! ♥

diluted_thought — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 04:57:22 GMT

Title: Our Last Goodbye
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: subtle Mikami/Naomi. Mikami, Naomi; mentions of Ms. Mikami, Raye, and Kira.
Warnings: I messed with the storyline a bit, and took some creative liberties with Raye and his burial place.
Word Count: 4,396
Author’s Note: ~~Wait, am I late?~~ For Week #29, Wedding. (I guess this could work for crack pairings, too?)
~~In which I actually make a fic related to one of my canon? what canon? OTPs.~~ This piece references Adventures of a Neurotic Courtesy Clerk in the respect that Mikami and Naomi have (briefly) encountered each other before.
The title comes from The Game by Lacuna Coil. Written for dn_contest, Week #50 - Revisit.

(He shuffled through his bag in frantic desperation as he tried to find his glasses case. This was his fourth time searching for it in his bag—not the third time, because that was an odd number and he refused to settle for just a measly, unholy, third search—and a nagging voice in the back of his head was telling him that it was useless because he never kept the case in his bag. He always had it in the inner pocket of his overcoat for easy use, right next to his pen and some tissues.)

“The wedding can be extravagant! We can invite all of your extended family as well as mine—though, well, mine isn’t nearly as huge as yours. I do have family that live in Nebraska, but they’re pretty estranged and…”

“Raye, the wedding doesn’t have to be so ornate. I would rather we have a traditional ceremony and—”

(Naturally there was no luck. That nagging voice was always right. It had been right the time when he was eight and had gotten sick because he hadn’t spent a whole forty seconds washing his hands, and it was right now, too. There was just no way his glasses case could be lost in the bag. His bag was just too perfectly, too painstakingly organized—his textbooks lined up according to his schedule, color-coordinated notebooks that held only college-ruled binder paper, and a ruler in case he needed to underline something in his textbook. He neglected the use of highlighters because they were too permanent. His books may have been used, but they were precious, and as such he had spent hours erasing all the pencil marks made by the previous owners.)

“We’re going to fly your family all the way from Japan to America and you want something traditional? The least we can do is have a memorable ceremony that no one will forget. ”

“Raye, watch where you’re going.”

(Now he had two choices: he could either backtrack to the law school and hope that luck—illogical as though it was—would allow him to reclaim his lost case, or he could manage without it for one night and check the lost and found tomorrow. The latter was clearly the most rational choice; he was already pressed for time and had to get to the coffee shop before he was late—which, for him, was being exactly on time since he liked to get their a few minutes early to—

“Raye!”

—avoid potential accidents.)

He stumbled back, felt himself grope blindly at the open air to keep from falling onto the concrete. A hand reached out and touched his arm delicately, not quite enough to give him back his balance, but somehow enough to keep him off the concrete. A long moment of hopeless staggering and jumbled confusion later, he realized that his book bag was on the concrete…and that he couldn’t see properly, which meant that his glasses had been thrown off in the collision, too.

“Sorry,” he said automatically—which was absurd, since this wasn’t his fault.

“Er…oh, sorry about that,” he heard someone mutter, but he was too busy trying to gather the textbooks that had scattered themselves across the concrete to do anything but apologize.

“Sorry,” he repeated.

“This isn’t your fault”—he glanced up just as the blurred figure (of a woman?) stooped down to help him gather his things—“Please forgive him. He wasn’t watching where he was going.” Her voice was admonishing.

(Not admonishing him, he realized.)

He had to bite his tongue against the inclination to apologize (again). “It’s fine,” he lied coolly. Of course it was not fine at all; his precious textbooks were now covered in dirt, and for all he knew, the pages could have been torn—his notes might have fallen out of his…

He scrambled to get the rest of his things but could see nothing in his reach. His first panicked thought was that he had somehow managed to neglect a gust of wind. But that was ridiculous. Especially when the woman said, “Here,”—why did her voice sound so familiar?—and handed him a neat stack of his textbooks.

“Thank you,” he muttered. He quickly brushed off whatever infinitesimal amount of dust he could from the cover and returned them safely to his bag.

“You’ll probably have to clean those,” she observed regretfully. “I’m very sorry.”

He watched her indistinct figure with a blank expression as she got to her feet (perhaps longer than he should have because the man next to her cleared his throat gruffly) before blinking and glancing away. (So he wasn’t the only one who cleaned his things so meticulously?)

“No. It’s fine. Thank you.” It was supposed to sound reassuring, but it sounded choppy and put-on even to his own ears.

He got to his feet. Smoothed down his overcoat reflexively. Swung his bag over his shoulder. Reached up to push the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose…

…when he realized they weren’t there.

Again he reached down to pick them up off the concrete (hoping they weren’t scratched because a new pair of lenses wasn’t in his budget plan right now) when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Your glasses.” There was a high inflection to her voice, like she was suppressing the urge to laugh.

(He didn’t know why, but this didn’t bother him like it should have.)

He reached out and retrieved the glasses sitting in the palm of her hand. His fingertips touched her palm against his better judgment (he was usually adverse to such contact because of bacterial contamination), and he was startled at how warm it was despite the chilly weather. It was pale—nearly as pale as his—and looked immaculately clean. It occurred to him then that he had seen this hand before (the nagging voice was telling him that he had, and he knew better than to go against it), but he wasn’t sure where. He should have felt ridiculous for recognizing it in the first place.

He should have. But he didn’t.

When he realized he was still staring at her hand (like the neurotic basket case that he was), he glanced away quickly and cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he finally said; he pretended he didn’t feel awkward and repetitive. (Failed miserably, of course.) He busied himself with inspecting his glasses for potential damage instead of looking at her.

“You’re welcome.” Her tone of voice implied that perhaps she had more to say even though she fell silent. He had the outrageous desire to ask her if they had met before. But of course, that was much too forward and he was already running late.

“Your parents are expecting us, Naomi.”

“Oh”—was that (maybe, perhaps) regret he had heard?—“That’s right. Let’s…get going then.”

He put his glasses back on just in time to see the pair leaving. He did not recognize the man (though his tall stature and less-than-authentic accent hinted that he may have been foreign). But the brief glimpse of the woman’s dark hair and fair skin was enough to confirm his suspicions and pacify the voice in the back of his head. He knew for certain that he had seen her—seen this Naomi—somewhere before.

Perhaps she had felt his gaze on her back, or maybe she was just doing it to be polite, but for whatever reason, she abruptly looked over her shoulder at him and offered him a smile (that almost made him drop his books again).

“Take care,” she called to him.

Any normal person would have acknowledged that sentiment with a “You, too,” or a smile, or even a nod. Any normal person would not stare dumbfounded at a woman as he simultaneously wondered if any dandruff was hidden underneath her jet-black hair. Any normal person may even have asked, “Have I ever seen you before?”

But Mikami Teru was not a normal person, so he left in the opposite direction while praying for the safety of his lost glasses case.

-----

He wasn’t sure why he bothered anymore, but here he was at his mother’s gravesite with a bouquet of flowers. (The flowers were more of a nonsensical formality than anything else; his mother had always hated flowers, which was why their backyard used to be teeming with filthy weeds.) It was the ninth—or was it the tenth? did it really matter?—year anniversary of his mother’s death, but at the same time it felt like an ordinary day. (Did that make him a bad son?) After having spent so many years on his own, he had all but forgotten what it felt like to have a mother. So he didn’t know why he tried.

Mikami knew that he should say a few words, but in the end he only stooped down (he tucked the folds of his overcoat under his legs so it wouldn’t touch the dirt), and placed the haphazard bouquet onto the mound of dirt covering the remains of that woman: his mother.

“Rest in peace, Sayoko,” he muttered. It felt awkward saying her first name, but calling her mother wouldn’t have been appropriate—it would mean having to acknowledge the fact that these brittle, lifeless bones underneath the dirt had once given life to him.

He knew without glancing down at his watch that his shift at the coffee shop started in two hours; he needed to get back to his apartment and get ready. He left without taking a second glance at the grave, his body suddenly heavy with numbness and fatigue. His legs felt more like lead with each stride, and he had to unfold his arms from his chest because they felt like dead weight.

His eyes were downcast, but from his peripheral vision he could tell there was a funeral taking place. (He wondered who had died—a brother, sister, a mother?) He repositioned the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, neglecting a glance at the ceremony because that would seem like he was intruding.

“…few words by Raye’s fiancée, Naomi.”

Had he heard correct? Had the priest said Naomi? But what were the odds that this would be the Naomi with the immaculately clean hands? He stopped then, his curiosity suddenly overriding that previous inclination not to eavesdrop, and he finally looked up.

She wasn’t facing him—she was turned away, probably looking down at the coffin—but the straight black hair that hung down her shoulders was proof enough; hair that shade of black could not be forgotten so quickly.

“Raye was…killed in action, you see.”

Naomi. He mouthed her name instinctively just as she turned back around. Her gaze met his and she paused, seeming to recognize him just as quickly as he had recognized her. She looked startled—bewildered, even—but he glanced away before she had a chance to do or say anything.

Mikami kept his head low as he proceeded out the narrow gate of the cemetery. His face was warm (he hadn’t counted on her seeing him, and what if she thought he had been eavesdropping?), his mouth was dry, and when he looked down at his hands, they were trembling. He pushed a lock of hair away from his forehead, hoping that moving his hands would stop the shaking. (It didn’t.)

He couldn’t place how he felt—guilty? shameful? regretful?—and that bothered him. He didn’t know why he was feeling this way over a woman he knew close to nothing about; he didn’t even know her last name, and it was by sheer chance that he had found out her first name. There was a part of him that wanted to go back, to tell her I’m sorry your fiancé died. I’m sure he’s in a better place now, but of course he wasn’t going to do that—he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be his place to try and comfort her.

Mikami realized that his jaw had been clenched since leaving the cemetery, and it took almost all of his self-possession just to allow it to slacken.

Angry. Yes, that’s how he felt because why did bad things happen to good people? Why did innocent people like Naomi have to see their loved ones die? He hated it, hated how the world was still rotting and how the innocent continued to suffer as the criminals prevailed. He hoped, begged, prayed that whoever had killed her fiancé would be caught—no, would be disposed of by Kira. Because Mikami knew that Kira was the only answer to this level of devastation, the only stability and voice of reason in this world of disorder and chaos. Kira was justice.

-----

Mikami placed a hand gingerly over his mouth to stifle a yawn. His shift at the coffee shop had exhausted him more than he had expected, and he still had to wait a good half hour before his train to Kyoto arrived. (It was times like these that he wished he could afford to live off-campus.) The subway terminal was nearly deserted, save for an old woman who was knitting something and a couple of teens who Mikami thought looked too shady for their own good.

He took his glasses off and cleaned them with a handkerchief from his coat pocket before carefully setting them aside. Mikami folded his arms across his legs and buried his pounding head between his knees. The scent of laundry detergent from his clothes calmed him, and for a moment he imagined he was in his dorm room, warm between the sheets of his best, his head on a soft pillow that smelled fresh and clean—

“Excuse me, are you okay?”

He wondered who the question was meant for since there were only a few people in the terminal. A moment later he realized that the question was probably meant for him, since he was the one with his forehead pressed against his knees.

“Yes, I am,” he said shortly. When he didn’t receive a reply, Mikami raised his head and looked at the hazed figure through a fringe of his hair. “Yes, I am,” he repeated—and because it couldn’t hurt: “Thank you.”

“Oh, it’s…”—he knit his brows together, set his glasses back onto his face—“Are you…?”

If the situation had been different, if he was the sort of person who found humor in such irony, Mikami would have laughed at himself for being so daft. If he had managed to recognize her voice that day in the city, why had it taken so long to register now?

“Yes,” he said automatically—how stupid; how could he say yes when she didn’t even know his name?

“Yes, it’s me,” he tried again, which sounded mildly better.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she murmured. He dared to glance at her, found a small (probably forced) smile on her face that contrasted sharply against her bloodshot eyes. Again his jaw tightened and again he had to force it to relax.

“Can I sit down?” she asked him.

He blinked and managed to garble an almost incoherent Yes while nodding for good measure. She sat down clutching some sort of pamphlet, probably from the burial service. Mikami shifted so he sat a polite distance away from her and fumbled awkwardly with the coat on his lap. (He refused to set it down on the bench.) He didn’t understand why she was here at the subway station; the funeral must have ended hours ago, so why hadn’t she already went home? He glanced at her furtively and noticed she had put the pamphlet away and was fiddling with the folds of her black skirt; whether she did it to give herself something to do, or because she disliked the skirt, Mikami did not know.

He wondered if she thought he was rude for not introducing himself. He cleared his throat and extended a hand towards her. “Mikami,” he told her, and then to clarify: “Mikami Teru. We haven’t been introduced properly. Sorry.”

She looked at him, his hand, and then back at him, like she was calculating something. (He hoped his hand didn’t look dirty or skeletal or unappealing.) She took his hand and he tried not to cringe away at the alarmingly cold touch. “Kimura Naomi,” she said finally, reluctantly. She didn’t look him straight in the eyes, and this bothered him.

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. His stomach was knotted and now his hands were getting cold. He looked at her from the corner of his eye and saw that her hands were shaking, which was not reassuring in the slightest. Was she going to…cry? Mikami didn’t know what to do in situations like this—he’d never had to comfort a woman before, much less one who was crying. He wasn’t even sure if he had a tissue to offer her.

“I saw you at the cemetery, too,” she said abruptly. “If this isn’t too personal, did you…? You’ve lost someone too, then?”

He brushed the hair away from his eyes, focused on a random spot in the air so he was looking straight ahead. “My mother,” he replied unequivocally. She shifted beside him, looking at him now; he didn’t have to glance at her to see the look on her face. “No, not recently,” he explained. “She died ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

He couldn’t find a sufficient reply so he said nothing. She folded her arms around herself like she was cold, and he felt a twinge of guilt for brushing her off so indelicately.

“I’m sorry about your fiancé,” he said quietly.

He looked at her then, watched as she tucked a strand of hair dark hair behind her ear (it fell back a second later) before answering. “Yes, it was…unexpected,” she murmured, staring at her lap now. “We were actually planning our wedding, you know. It was going to be in February, perhaps even on Valentine’s Day.”

Mikami remembered the snippet of the conversation he had heard, how she and her fiancé had had mixed opinions about the wedding and its theme. “I see,” was the only appropriate remark he could think of.

She opened and closed her mouth once, twice before she finally said something. “He wanted an extravagant wedding”—Mikami noticed that she refused to use his real name—“in a huge, ornate cathedral or a basilica. He wanted only the finest music and the best of food. And do you know what else?—he planned on flying my entire family, even my second and third cousins, all the way to America, and I’m not even close to them. ‘We only really do this once, and I want to make it memorable,’ he told me.” She fell silent and he could tell by the way her eyes brimmed over that she was imagining his face, and he was helpless in trying to comfort her.

“And you?” he prompted softly. “What did you want?”

She looked up at him a little too sharply, like he had said the wrong thing. “What…did I want?” she asked him, bemused.

“Yes,” he reiterated. “You were going to be the bride. Don’t you have a say in matters, too?”

Mikami was surprised (but not displeased) when she suddenly broke out in a smile and laughed softly, like he’d just made a joke. Was she making fun of him? He must have started frowning because her laughter stilled and she touched his arm. (He pretended his heart wasn’t beating against his ribcage as fast as it was.) “No, no. I’m not laughing at you,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “It’s just that…you asked me what I wanted. Your logic is so different from his…from how his was. It’s so practical.”

He still wasn’t sure how this was funny to her, but he didn’t try to understand.

“I wanted something much more traditional.” He knew this of course. “I actually wanted our wedding held in a small church located in the countryside.” He forced himself not to shudder at the thought of how much dirt would be there. “I wanted something quaint and peaceful with just our immediate families, nothing lavish or flamboyant. He had even insisted that my wedding dress be modern and flashy”—she shook her head, like the thought was revolting—“I wanted a simple, comfortable gown.”

A glimpse of her wearing a modest white wedding gown passed through his head, and Mikami had to look away because he suddenly felt warm and uncomfortable. He looked around the terminal and found the old woman from before smiling as she knitted; the teens had moved to a more remote part of the station and were staring at him—at them—and Mikami realized that they probably looked like they were together, on some sort of date. His mouth went dry again and he coughed despite having no need.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He wasn’t expecting her to ask (had hoped she wouldn’t, really), and he nodded hastily. “Allergies,” was the only reasonable excused he could think of.

“Do you still work at the grocery store?”

He decided he was wasting his effort in trying to figure out why she cared. “No, I quit a month or so ago after being accepted into law school. I work at a coffee shop a few blocks from here now.”

“You’re going to become a lawyer.” She sounded impressed.

“A prosecuting attorney,” he clarified politely.

“That is very noble of you,” she acknowledged with a slight (affectionate?) tilt of her head. “Criminals are running amok our society. We need more people with a strong sense of justice to put them in their place and protect…the innocent.” Her voice faltered at the end of that and he knew why.

Her enthusiasm astounded him—he had never met a woman who seemed to value justice so deeply. He suddenly had so many questions that he wanted to ask her—did she think the world was filthy, too? did she believe that the world was full of sinners that were going to be damned? did she support Kira and think he was justice?

But Mikami didn’t get a chance to ask her that, or anything—not even what she did for a living—because the rumbling that he vaguely recalled had steadily gotten louder and now was almost deafening. A flash of panic passed through him until the subway car came to a screeching halt on the tracks. Right. It was a subway station. He had forgotten.

“Oh, this is my train,” she said softly, almost reluctantly.

Mikami stood up with her out of common courtesy even though his legs were weak with fatigue. He didn’t want to admit it to her, admit it to himself that he was disappointed she had to leave so soon. It was odd how much they had talked and how little he still knew about her. He was dangerously close to asking her to stay when she said, with an almost self-conscious air, “Do you have something to ask me before I leave?”

Was he staring?—yes, he was, and he felt like a fool and would have gritted his teeth together if he wasn’t paranoid about it harming his enamel. “No. No, I don’t,” he said, voice unnaturally hoarse. He stepped aside and let her pass. She murmured a thank you and brushed by him; he caught a whiff of flowers—vanilla? both?—and realized the scent would probably have mirrored her wedding bouquet.

Mikami shifted on his feet awkwardly, watching her walk to the entrance with slow but measured strides, gaze forward, eyes narrowed. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the right words; his stomach was knotted tighter than before.

“Take care, Naomi-san,” he heard himself say. (Had he really just used her first name?)

She halted. Turned. Looked at him with an expression that was more apologetic than anything.

“You too, Mikami-san,” she told him, again with that faint but still discernible smile. She turned back around, and as she stepped through the entrance, he thought he heard her say Teru, but perhaps that was just his imagination (or wishful thinking).

He sat only when the train had departed, suddenly feeling cold and too alone—the latter of which was strange, since he had always preferred solitude over company. He glanced over to his right and noticed that she had left the pamphlet behind. His first inclination was to take the next train headed to Shinjuku Station and return it to her, but he decided against it. (If he kept it, it would give him a reason to see her again, right?) He picked up the pamphlet instead and turned it over in his hands. It was a wedding invitation—her wedding invitation—printed in English. Raye Penber, so that had been her fiancé’s full name, and hers…Naomi Misora? Misora? So her last name had been a fake, but why?

Mikami opened it and scanned the interior for some clue as to why she had used an alias, but the text just mentioned where the wedding and banquet would be held. Written in sharp, flawless script at the top was a date—27.12.2003.

----

He reread the article twice before it sunk in.

So she was missing, and had been missing since the first of January. But he didn’t believe it. He couldn’t imagine her being missing; her will had been too strong to allow that to be her undoing No, if anything, she had probably been killed—maybe even by the same person who had killed her fiancé. It was ironic, too ironic, and he felt like…no, he didn’t even understand how he felt. There was a sharp pain in his stomach and his chest was tight, like he was trying to hold in something that wasn’t there.

Why should he care, really? He had never known this woman personally. She had lied to him about her name, had somehow been foolish enough to allow herself to be killed. So what did it matter if her hands had been perfectly pale and immaculate? So what did it matter if she had been kind to him? So what did it matter if she had seemed genuinely sorry about his mother’s death? So what did it matter if she had valued justice almost as much as him?

But it did matter, so Mikami Teru found himself cutting out that small picture of her—of Misora Naomi—and placing it in his drawer next to the wedding invitation that would never be sent out.

happy birthday to my sariberry!

diluted_thought — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 03:07:15 GMT

I'm sorry this is so late in the day! ;;;; But happy birthday, Sari! I hope you had an absolutely fantastic birthday, and here is my gift, as promised. ~~But, you know, it's short. D=~~

Title: Vanity, Thy Name Is…
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: hints of Light/Sayu; Light, Sayu, Misa; mentions of Ryuuga Hideki, Ryuk, L, Kiyomi, Yuri and Sachiko.
Warnings: Incestual themes.
Word Count: 1,667
Author's Note: Yay! I finished this on time! A birthday!fic for Sari. I hope you had an awesome birthday, darling! I love you. ♥

Light had told himself that the reason he wasn’t able to focus was because Sayu kept crinkling the potato chip bag, but by now he knew better.

She was squealing over some teen idol—some Ryuuga Hideki—and he felt like throwing his book at the television just to get her to shut up. It wasn’t like this was the first time Sayu was fixated over an actor—she was an average teenage girl and her crushes were as impulsive as the weather. It shouldn’t have been anything new to him, and it shouldn’t have incensed him as much as it already had. But it did, and his chest was tight and it felt like there was something in his throat when in reality there was nothing.

He could have gotten up and went to his room, but that would have meant taking Ryuk with him and hearing his mindless chatter as he (unsuccessfully) tried to read. (Incidentally, Ryuk was hovering over him in complete silence, mindlessly engrossed by the melodramatic plot of the film.)

Light managed to get the gist of the paragraph (it had taken him four tries just to grasp what the nondescript text had meant; he was too preoccupied), and moved on to the next page (mostly to forget that pencil-neck of an idol his sister was enamored with—it was getting ridiculous).

“He’s so perfect,” Sayu said abruptly, her mouth full of chips. “Why can’t every guy be like him?—he has the most gorgeous eyes.”

Light felt his jaw tense reflexively, suddenly he felt like his self-restraint (what was left to it) was close to breaking in half. Perfect? he wanted to ask, What do you mean by perfect? He looked up at the television (glared at it, more like) and tried to see how an actor with disheveled blond hair and a plastic smile (with teeth far too straight and white to seem real, in his opinion) could be perfect. (Light could barely see his eyes; how could Ryuuga stand having so much hair plastered onto his face?)

Light cleared his throat, masked his annoyance with one of his winning smirks. “He’s an actor, Sayu,” he told her matter-of-factly. “It’s not perfection, it’s the make-up, lighting, and camera angles doing all the right things.”

Sayu shot him a that’s-what-you-want-me-to-think glance. “Come off it, onii-chan. You’re just jealous.”

He looked at her vacantly, futilely trying to find the right words to deflect her remark but to no avail. He didn’t want to admit to himself that she may have been right—that no, he hadn’t been annoyed by her incessant squealing, but more so the fact she had been squealing over him. He hated this insecure feeling of jealousy; he was the one with the immaculate grades, the charismatic personality, and the clean-cut good looks, so why was some (synthetic) actor having this sort of belittling affect on him?

(Ryuk was cackling and Light made a mental note to keep him away from all apples.)

“No, you’re just misinformed.” He said it lightly, trying not to snap at her, trying not to give Sayu the satisfaction that her words had cut him more deeply than he had expected. Then, briskly: “I’m going to read in my room.”

Sayu bristled, muttered something like Just because you’re smart doesn’t mean you know everything, jerk, and turned up the volume on the television set. (If she was trying to annoy him, then it was working.)

Light reached the staircase and looked askance at the film, then at Sayu. It occurred to him that he wasn’t sure why he felt so (annoyed? insecure? jealous?)—was it because of Ryuuga Hideki, or what his sister thought of him?

His throat suddenly felt dry, and Ryuk began chuckling behind him.

-----

He dressed quickly, holding a towel to his sodden hair while simultaneously trying to button his shirt with the other hand. Misa had gotten out of her photo shoot earlier than expected and had called him fifteen minutes ago, telling him that she was on her way and would be there soon and that she missed him and that she was wondering if three dates in a row meant that she had won over Kiyomi and Yuri (when in actuality he was just keeping her happy so she could get L’s real name for him).

It aggravated him beyond reason that L was using Ryuuga Hideki as an alias. Light understood the reasoning behind it, that if he had been foolish enough to write Ryuuga’s name down in the Death Note, chances were he would’ve killed the real actor, which would be proof enough that he was Kira; but he felt like he was being taunted—toyed with. Light had seen Ryuuga Hideki’s damn face on television so many times that, had L not taken his name as an (inconvenient) alias, he would’ve already written his name down in the Death Note.

(Ryuuga’s unkempt blond hair accidentally catching on fire and just happening to give him life-threatening burns that would eventually lead to his untimely yet excruciatingly painful death—just a freak accident, right? He would have to ask Ryuk if this was feasible.)

Light quickly dried what hair he could with his towel. (Much good that would do him, since the towel was already drenched anyway.) There was a knock at the door, and when he called out, “What is it?” a muffled reply served as his response. He gritted his teeth together—it was probably his mother asking him if he needed his shirt ironed—and felt uncommonly irritable as he opened the bathroom door.

He’d been wrong—it wasn’t his mother, it was Sayu; but this didn’t really help his cause.

“What?”

She didn’t respond; she was staring at him blankly, like there was something on his face. (He resisted the self-conscious urge to reach up and check his hair for any remaining shampoo for the sake of tempered nonchalance.) There was something in the way she looked at him that unnerved him, and he had to glance away for a moment before repeating, more emphatically now:

“What?”

“Oh.” She blinked and straightened as if on cue. “She’s, you know, um, downstairs.” He lifted his eyebrows at her, was about to ask her if she meant Misa was downstairs when she cut in, told him, “I meant Misa’s downstairs. She asked me to get you. Told me to tell you to hurry up—that if you’re going to take any longer, you better look hotter than usual. Um, that’s what she told me.”

He stared at her in silence, tried to make sense of how odd that sounded coming from his sister (but why he wasn’t as disturbed as he should have been).

“Right.”—she glanced away, like it had occurred to her that she’d been looking at him too long—“I’ll tell her that you’re almost ready,” she muttered. Sayu whisked out of the room quickly, her head low. (He pretended that the pink tint on her cheeks had just been his imagination.)

Light closed the door behind her, (which was silly because why bother?—he was already dressed) and turned to look at himself in the mirror. His hair was matted to his forehead and the sides of his face, and his fingers flexed reflexively in response. He combed it back into place, fixed the layers so they fell neatly over his forehead. His hair still looked too long (if he stepped back and unfocused his eyes, he was sure that he would look like…)—maybe because it was wet from his shower, or his towel had ruffled it more than he would’ve liked, or because he hadn’t trimmed it in a while, (and he’d told himself that he would get around to it—when he had the time).

-----

“Why did you change the channel?” Light tried to keep the smugness out of his voice as much as he could. He shifted Misa’s coat from one arm to the other and looked at Sayu, who set the remote aside and picked up one of her college textbooks.

“Because I wanted to,” she deadpanned.

He smirked just the slightest bit, leaned against the wall as he waited for Misa to finish helping their mother in the kitchen. “But I thought you were the one with the mad crush on Ryuuga Hideki.”

“I was fifteen, onii-chan,” she told him, emphasizing her point by giving him an are-you-still-treating-me-like-a-child? sort of look. “Everyone had crushes on pop stars back then—well, except you, but that’s because you were a nerd.” He narrowed his eyes in response and she giggled and threw one of her mechanical pencils at him.

“Why do you care anyway?”

Light pretended he hadn’t heard her (Ryuk wasn’t making things easier by saying, Hey, Light, your sister just asked you a question, you know) and called into the kitchen, impatience edging his voice as he asked Misa if she was done yet. (He had to get back to work, and the look on his sister’s face was suddenly making him uncomfortable.)

Misa came out of the kitchen in a sort of frenzied dash. “Misa is sorry, Light-kun! Misa was just helping with the dishes!”

“That’s fine,” Light said shortly. “Let’s just get going.”

He helped Misa into her coat (strictly a formality—he wanted to make a decent impression on his mother); she whirled around girlishly, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and began wiping off any excess red lipstick with one hand and touching his hair with the other.

“Misa thinks Light-kun looks better with long hair,” she approved, smiling sweetly when he looked at her.

He was about to tell her that he was planning on getting it trimmed that weekend when Sayu suddenly spoke from her spot on the couch. “Really, Misa-san?” she asked her thoughtfully. “I think onii-chan looks better with his hair neat and trimmed. It suits him.”

He and Sayu touched gazes for a moment, and Light realized that he was more pleased than he should have been (and found that he didn’t care, either).

birthday wishes to my favorite dark-haired, leather-clad fbi agent!

diluted_thought — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 02:10:51 GMT

It's Naomi's birthday! ♥ I wish I had the time to write her a little ficlet, but the best I could manage was a fifteen-word drabble. I honored her birthday by keeping my hair down today and wearing a bunch of black ~~(wait, I do that almost every day XD;)~~ and going off on a much-needed tangent when my less-than-informative friend made a ridiculously male chauvinistic remark.

companions of the night | ethan (michel) colorbars

diluted_thought — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 04:12:12 GMT

Yes, I totally made colorbars for Companions of the Night starring French actor Gaspard Ulliel as ~~Ethan~~ Michel. There's one main colorbar with four other text variations ~~the last three were made to intentionally make fun of Twilight EPIC LULZ! /shot~~. These are dedicated to two very special people (you know who you are ;D). Huge thanks to Sari for providing the more-than-appropriate quote for the third colorbar. XD;

Rules:
[ + ] If you plan on snagging this, please let me know! ~~Comments, please. No, not animal blood.~~
[ + ] If you choose to upload this onto your own server, please remember to change the URL of the image.
[ + ] Do not remove the credit. ~~Ethan will totally deny you and leave you for Edward. Trufax, yo.~~
[ + ] TTLY ENJOY. ;D

Copy & Paste The Following Code
<center><a href="http://diluted-thought.livejournal.com/33383.html#cutid1" target="_blank"><img src="http://i281.photobucket.com/albums/kk201/diluted_thought/CharismaticLove.jpg"</a></center>

-----

yay for christmas fic!

diluted_thought — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 08:43:23 GMT

Title: So Hide Your Eyes
Rating: ~~I for Incest~~ PG-13 / R, depending
Pairings/Characters: Light/Sayu, implied Light/Misa and Soichiro/Sachiko; Sachiko, Light, Sayu; mentions of Soichiro, Misa, Matsuda, and Aizawa.
Warnings: Um, the pairing? XD; Incest. (While used here, I do not condone real life incest.) Some AU, I think, since I tweaked the events and storyline a bit.
Word Count: 8,642
Author’s Note: A gift!fic for my ~~partner in crime~~ ~~fangirly companion~~ ~~catalyst for ranting~~ awesome friend that I love so much, sarijw, using the prompt red (which is peppered arbitrarily throughout the fic). This one is for you, love. ♥ (I hope you like it, because I’ve never been this nervous about posting a fanfic in the history of forever. XD;;;;)

The title comes from The Love Letter by Blaqk Audio.

Second-person from Sachiko’s point-of-view.

You thought your life was perfect.

Well, to be fair, it was up until recently. But now your husband—that moral and upright man that you love with all your heart—is working even later hours at the police station, and you can’t help but feel he values his job more than his own family; if you’re lucky, he’s home for dinner once every two weeks. (Admittedly, your anniversary is next Wednesday and you’re wondering if he even remembers.)

You hoped to find solace in your children.

You thought that your son—your brilliant, charming, perfect son—would be able to give you the comfort that you needed. But he’s just started college and has been busy as of late, coming and going as he pleases. He stays cooped up in his room for the most part; he says that he’s studying, but each time you’ve brought him a snack his room has been dimly lit at the most.

“My lamp and monitor give me all the light I need,” Light tells you with a smile each time you reproach him about it, “Don’t worry about it, Mom.” And there’s no way you can deny the sincerity of his smile, so you let your son ease his way out of the contention. Again. You’re not quite convinced he’s telling the truth, but as long as he continues getting good marks (you’re certain that he will) you will give him that bit of leeway.

Your daughter is no better; she’s become just as reclusive—if not more—than her brother, and this bothers you. She has always been a bubbly girl, chatting with you and telling you some of the finer points of her day (these finer points usually involve how much she hates Algebra and how she wishes a boy named Noriyuki in her Science class would notice her), but now it feels like she’s avoiding you. You brushed it off at first—rationalized it by saying that she’s an adolescent—but now you cannot help but wonder if she’s hiding something. She’s began isolating herself from everyone in her life—family, in particular.

You find yourself thinking that perhaps she has a boyfriend that no one knows about, but dismiss this almost as quickly as it comes into your head; if she had a boyfriend, she would probably be spending more time outside the house than inside her room.

Your daughter is no straight-A student like Light; she is average at best, and maybe Math has become so painful that she is actually failing the class. But then wouldn’t she be going to her brother for help instead of shying away from everyone all together?—well, you can’t say everyone since Soichiro is hardly ever home, but…

You leave the thought at the back of your head as your son enters the kitchen and asks you if everything is okay. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re holding your cutting knife mid-air over tomatoes, and you laugh a bit, shake your head, and tell him that you were just thinking.

“Are mothers allowed to daydream?” Light asks jokingly. You purse your lips and he chuckles, reaching for an apple.

“I’m going to be done with dinner soon,” you inform him, as if the diced tomatoes were not enough evidence, “You’ll ruin your appetite.”

Light shrugs. “Just a snack, Mom,” he says innocently. “It won’t ruin my appetite. Promise.”

You click your tongue in disapproval and are about to ask him if he skipped lunch again (he hasn’t been eating much, and you think it’s because he’s been studying too hard) when your daughter pokes her head into the kitchen.

“Um, can you bring my dinner up to my room, Mom?”—her eyes are locked onto you, as if her life depends on it and she can’t look anywhere else—“I’m, uh, kind of busy.”

“You’re not having dinner with us, Sayu?” Light asks her. He tosses the apple into the air and deftly catches it in the palm of his other hand.

“Busy,” Sayu says quickly, apologetically. She doesn’t look directly at him, doesn’t even bother acknowledging his presence with a glance. You start to ask her what she’s so busy doing when she dashes back up the stairs, more than likely to her room.

“I wonder what’s gotten into her,” you murmur, frowning.

But Light doesn’t seem to hear you; he’s staring at the far end of the kitchen where Sayu had been just been standing. You can’t see his face, but for some reason you still feel unsettled.

You turn away for a second to put the knife and cutting board into the sink. “She hasn’t been herself for…” you start to say, but you trail off when you realize that your son has already left the room, the apple forgotten on the countertop.

-----

Things go from bad to worse in a short amount of time.

Your husband’s sporadic visits home have become even more sporadic now. With his involvement in the Kira case, he’s all but a stranger in his home now. In fact, you’ve finally stopped fixing his side of the bed; there’s no point in pretending that the pillows pressed against your back are actually your husband as you sleep.

You busy yourself with worrying about other things—like how your son has acquired himself a girlfriend, and how your daughter never seems to leave her room. Light’s girlfriend, Misa, is a pretty, petite little thing; she’s a renowned model, and has even taken up acting, but… You find it strange that Light would be involved with a girl so unlike himself. Misa is outgoing and cheerful, more talkative than any girl Light has dated in the past. You’ve grown fond of Misa and her lively personality, but you are unsure as to whether your son feels the same way.

Light looks more annoyed than happy with having Misa as his girlfriend. His expression is often strained, like there’s something forcing him to keep Misa in his life. This bothers you because you’ve always taught him that toying with people’s emotions is wrong—but, then again, perhaps he doesn’t have the heart to break up with her. In any case, Light cleverly evades the subject each time you try bringing it up with him, so you’re left helplessly fluttering over the idea that Light is using his girlfriend for some sort of personal gain with no means to stop it. There are times when you find that your son’s intelligence is more hurtful than helpful.

As for Sayu, you have no idea what is going on with her. You have labored over her awkward behavior for weeks, and you still have no idea what could possibly be causing it. You mentioned it to Soichiro the last time you delivered him a change of clothes, but naturally he rationalized it.

“Sayu’s a teenager now, Sachi,” he told you, pacifying you like you were a baby instead of a mother, “She’s not going to tell you everything anymore. Just give her some time. She’ll come around.”

So you did just that—you gave her some time. But now it’s hard to remember that your daughter even lives there; she’s a stranger like her father now. You’ve tried talking to her; you’ve asked her about her day, how school is going, if she has any plans with her friends. But your daughter who looks pale and wan and sickly only gives you the most humdrum of answers. “I’m okay.” “School is okay.” “We don’t have any plans.”

It’s gotten so bad that you even searched her room when she and Light were at school. Terrible as it sounds, you had actually been half-hoping to find something—pills, drugs, even condoms—so you could justify her condition. But you found nothing. You even looked through her diary, but she hadn’t written in it for over a month and her last entry was too happy to give you any leads as to what may have happened since then.

You eventually confided in Light because you couldn’t keep it to yourself anymore. You felt terrible having to talk to your son about it because he had enough on his mind already, what with school and his personal life. But there was no use in pretending that you were fine—that everything was fine—because it wasn’t. You needed to get it off your chest, and without Soichiro, you could only talk to your son. You hoped that Light—with his charismatic personality and comforting presence—would be able to help Sayu.

But Light hadn’t taken it as well as you had initially hoped. Your son had been impassive as you told him about Sayu’s unusual behavior. He had nodded at all the appropriate times, offered the occasional, “Go on,” and “Is there more?” when you had paused, but you were troubled by his reaction. At the end, Light hadn’t even volunteered to help Sayu; he had just sat back, took a deep breath, furrowed his eyebrows, and began thinking.

You had both sat like that for a few minutes: Light sitting at his desk, mulling over something, and you watching him with trepidation. And just as you got up to walk towards the door, you had noticed a subtle change in Light’s body language. His eyes widened just the slightest bit—if you weren’t his mother, you probably would not have notice—and his jaw clenched and unclenched in a fraction of a second. The way he had turned to look at you had been unsettling, like he knew something that you didn’t. But you hadn’t pressed the subject. You’d just told him not to think about it too much.

And now here you are biting your nails as you mindlessly dust some furniture and think about taking Sayu to a psychiatrist. It’s a drastic measure, but you’re not sure what to do because no one else in the house seems to care and all the weight is on your shoulders and—

“Mom?”

You turn towards the doorway perhaps a little too sharply because your son takes a cautious step back and holds his hands up in concession, silently telling you It’s just me. You sigh and put a hand on your chest. “I didn’t hear you come in. Sorry, dear,” you apologize, blinking to clear your head. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah… Misa had an acting audition she had to get to,” Light explains. “We ended our date a little early.” He shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, and you bite your tongue.

“Is everything okay? You seem a little…jumpy.”

“No, Light,” you tell him, quite frankly, because there’s no point in lying, “I’m worried about your sister.”

His eyes cut away from you—you could have sworn they flickered to a scarlet to match the color of his dress shirt—for a brief moment. When he meets your gaze again, his eyes are calm and clear with intent.

“I know,” he mutters. “It’s gotten worse.”

“There’s not much I can do,” you say. “I’m…considering taking her to a psychiatrist.”

Your son narrows his eyes and stiffens. “This is a last resort,” he says grimly. It’s not a question, but you nod anyway because you can’t think of a sufficient answer.

“Let me try and talk to her,” Light offers after a pause. There’s a peculiar resolve to his voice that you just can’t place, but you’re not going to tell him no. “Maybe I can talk some sense into my little sister.” He smiles reassuringly, pats your shoulder, and takes to the staircase. His back is rigid, like he’s uncomfortable with having to do this all by himself, but before you can offer to go with him, he’s already disappeared down the hall.

-----

You tap your foot apprehensively against the bottom step of the staircase. You’re gnawing on your lower lip and wondering if you should go upstairs to check on your children. They’ve been talking (presumably) for a good hour-and-a-half, and you think that that should be enough time. But you could be wrong. What if Light hasn’t quite broken through? What if Sayu still refuses to talk? What if all that time, they’ve just been sitting there in silence?

You can’t be sure if you don’t ask…

“Light?” There’s a tentative edge to your voice. “Sayu? It’s time. For dinner.”

You count how many seconds pass as you twist your fingers. When you reach thirteen, Light appears at the top of the staircase wearing a brilliant smile; he nods once and the tension that had kept your stomach knotted together for weeks finally loosens and you can breathe.

Sayu appears behind him, and while she still looks a little nervous, there is finally some life to her eyes and color in her complexion. Light puts his hand against her back and coaxes her forward gently—lightheartedly threatens to push her down the stairs if she doesn’t get a move on—and Sayu laughs. After hearing nothing but a lifeless monotone to her voice for so long, the sound of your daughter’s laughter makes you laugh, makes you smile. You look up at Light, and the smile he was wearing before has turned into something of a smirk. You don’t let this or the sudden (red?) flash in his eyes bother you because your son is perfect and brilliant and made the impossible possible by coaxing Sayu out of whatever delirium was plaguing her.

Maybe now life will finally be back in order.

-----

“Hey, Mom?”

Your daughter is standing in front of you with a bag of chips (she opens the bag before you warn her about spilling crumbs). You make a point of vacuuming the general area where she had opened the bag before responding.

“Yes, Sayu?”

“Did onii-chan go out?” She gestures to the Algebra tucked into the crook of her arm. “He was supposed to help me with my Algebra.”

“He went out with Misa,” you tell her, now vacuuming around her. “He should be back soon.”

“Oh.” There is clear disappointment in her voice. “Right. Okay.” She moves past you into the living room. “I’ll just have to wait, I guess,” she mutters to herself.

You switch off the vacuum and put a cold hand to your forehead. You know you should be happy now that your daughter is back to her normal, spirited self but you’re not. Light told you that Sayu’s “depression,” as he had so aptly put it, had been due to her struggling in school.

“She was afraid to tell you,” Light had explained after dinner that night. “so I got the truth out of her with some gentle prodding. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll do my best to help her.”

You had objected then, because how would he be able to keep up his own grades when he was helping Sayu on an almost regular basis? But Light had just smiled cryptically and told you that he could manage it.

“You know there is little that I can’t manage,” he had said.

You hadn’t argued, but now you wish that you had. There was nothing visibly wrong, of course—Light’s grades were still flawless, Sayu was happier, and they both seemed to be enjoying themselves. But that was where the problem began. They had been spending an awful lot of time together. On most days when Light was home, Sayu was in her brother’s room straight after dinner until she went to bed. It was like all the time and energy Light was not spending on school, studying, Misa, (and wherever else he was during the day) he was spending with Sayu.

This had not bothered you initially; at first, you had been overjoyed at the fact that your children were spending time together. When Light had started college, you had been afraid that a rift would develop between them. Then he had offered to tutor Sayu, and you had been sure it was the perfect way for them to stay close.

But this has become the least of your worries because now that Light has started his tutoring session with Sayu, you have been seeing changes in both of your children. There have been times when you noticed Sayu looking at her brother (perhaps) longer than she should; even her casual glances seem to hold a hidden message, almost like she’s captivated with him.

You don’t want to believe that your daughter is actually—and you have to bite your tongue and swallow painfully as you settle on the word—attracted to her brother, but all the signs are pointing in the right (or wrong, for the sake of argument) direction. It would explain why Sayu has suddenly done a one-eighty and become thoroughly engrossed with her brother instead of shying away from him like before. It would explain why she has started taking more care into her appearance, even when she’s at home. It would explain why Light has been acting so smug and self-assured. It would explain why they’ve been spending so much time together (so what have they really been doing all that time?).

It would explain why Sayu is sitting on the couch watching television mechanically, eyes unfocused, fingers drumming impatiently against her Algebra book. The chips are sitting forgotten next to her, like they were a front—which they probably were, now that you think about it—for the bigger picture.

You and Sayu hear the doorbell ring at the exact same time. By now, you know better than to suspect that your husband is home, so you watch anxiously as Sayu jumps to her feet, chimes an “I’ll get it!” and runs to answer the door. You turn the vacuum back on as you see your son enter from your peripheral vision; you can’t make out his face clearly, but you’re certain that he’s wearing that same self-satisfied smirk.

You begin vacuuming the area again in a feeble attempt to get any dirt that you may have missed the first time.

-----

Never in your life had you imagined that you would resort to spying on your children. You hated when your mother invaded your own private space when you had been a girl, and now you’re doing that doubly for your children. But there is no way around this—you need to know what is going on with your children.

So here you are, standing with your ear pressed against the door to Light’s room. It’s closed (and presumably locked, all things considered), and for the past few minutes you haven’t heard much noise, save for the scratching of pencil against paper and the flipping of pages. You want to believe that it is as innocent as that—that Light really is in there helping Sayu with her homework—but you’re Light’s mother, and you know what clever schemes your son is capable of (and now you hate yourself for making your perfect son seem like a criminal).

“You understand that much, don’t you?” Light’s voice is calm and controlled, like he’s reading course descriptions out of a college catalog.

Sayu hesitates. “Yeah, but not…”—there’s more page flipping—“…that stuff.”

“Ah, well…”

The scratching of pencil on paper resumes, and you take a quiet breath of relief. Okay, maybe you were overreacting. Maybe they are (and always have been) working on homework and not…

You justify it by telling yourself that you’re a mother, and as such you have a habit of reading into your children’s actions a little too critically. You block out the small voice at the back of your head that’s yelling You’re missing—

“But you look better in the red one, Light.”

—the bigger picture.

Your stomach knots painfully and you have to pull your hand away from the door to keep from making any noise because you’re suddenly shaking. (In passing, you find it bitterly ironic that just a second ago you were actually relieved.) You’re not sure exactly where the conversation has gone—weren’t they just talking about homework? You have no idea what a textbook and pencil have to do with “the red one,” which you are going to assume is a shirt. You are unnerved by the way Sayu said it—not in a sister-to-brother well-something-looks-decent-on-you-for-once sort of way, but in an it complements you undertone that you would only expect Misa to use. What’s more, why is she calling him Light instead of onii-chan? You’ve never heard her speak to him like this before.

“Oh, is that so?” Light’s voice is suddenly silky and evocative. You can imagine that smirk plastered onto his face and that red flash in his eyes that makes him look like a criminal. You hear quick but measured strides, followed by a distinctly girlish giggle that can only belong to your daughter. Light chuckles once—a low, husky sound that makes your mouth go dry—and then immediately shushes her.

You move away from the door and into the master bedroom, your palms clammy and cold and your heart hammering erratically against your chest. This is more proof than you wanted, and now you wish that you hadn’t ventured up here to investigate. Perhaps it would’ve been easier to live in a world of blissful ignorance where you had no idea that your children—that your perfect boy and cheerful girl—were involved in some sort of a (you can’t let yourself think the actual word because that would make it truer than it already was) relationship. You don’t know how you went wrong with raising them. This is not how it is supposed to be: brothers and sisters don’t feel this way about each other. Your children are committing a grave sin, and what if…what if Kira were to find out? There is no doubt in your mind that Kira would not tolerate such iniquity. Now you have to run the risk of losing both your children because somehow, someway they are involved with one another?

You lean back against the wall because it’s hard for you to support your own weight. (You’re partially disgusted at yourself because the idea registered quicker than you thought—like you subconsciously knew that something like this was going to happen.) For a moment you consider telling Soichiro, but no, that would only exacerbate things. Soichiro would never believe you—who in their right mind would ever believe you?—and he would probably tell you to go see a therapist. Things like this never happened, and you realize that maybe that was why Light suddenly seemed so smug. He was probably sure of himself and their cleverly crafted pretense; no one would ever believe that your flawless son would ever do something so unthinkable.

You hear the door to Light’s room open and you quickly push yourself off the wall. You’re sick to your stomach and there’s a hollow feeling in your chest, but you ignore it (the story of your life) and open the closet door, pretending to rearrange some of your husband’s clothing.

Sayu dances down the hall, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright, and says, “I wonder what’s for dinner.” Light is right behind her, his back straight, arms folded confidently over his chest, each step careful and defined as he walks towards the staircase.

And of course, he’s wearing a red dress shirt.

-----

Eventually (and you never thought you would be happy to see your son leave) Light decides to get an apartment with Misa. This comes as an immense relief to you—“Are you sure, dear?” you ask. “Do you really want to leave so soon?”—although you don’t show it. But Light doesn’t take no for an answer, says that it’s time he live on his own because he doesn’t want to burden you with more work now that Sayu is older.

You give Sayu a dubious glance when Light reveals his news. (You have not told anyone about their relationship—how can you when no one will believe you?—but have taken subtle but effective measures to keep them away from each other; now your cause is only being helped.) She’s smiling, congratulating him, but you can tell it’s strained by the way the corner of her mouth quivers.

Naturally, Light plays the part smoothly and effectively. He dismisses himself by saying he’s going to pack, and Sayu silently curls up on the couch in front of the television to watch a soap opera. You’re relieved, worried, and confused at the same time. Relieved that this will hopefully put an end to their taboo relationship, worried about how Sayu is going to take this, and confused as to why Light has decided to move out in the first place.

-----

But somehow things work out. You’re not certain how, but they do.

You’re watching Light inspect the walls of his room—well, his former room to be fair—to make sure he didn’t scratch any paint while clearing his things out. Sayu has just gone to put the last box in the car, and even Soichiro has managed to take some time off to help settle Light into his new place.

You’re not sure if Light has reasoned with Sayu (or hopefully ended things with her), but whatever the case, your daughter is not moping around the house like you expected her to. She appears to be a bit crestfallen, but this is understandable (you’re rationalizing it by telling yourself it’s because her brother is leaving and not the unthinkable), and you give her the benefit of the doubt.

You hope that Light has finally come to his senses and realized the severity of their actions—maybe that’s why he’s decided to leave, so he doesn’t spark unnecessary tension. You’re still not sure what happened between your children in the first place, but maybe it had something to do with your daughter’s naïveté, and Light’s… You leave the thought unfinished because you have no justification for your son: he’s intelligent, he knows right from wrong, he has a girlfriend…

Still, you’re wondering if you’ve done the right thing by keeping their relationship a secret.

You had originally kept it to yourself because you were afraid that your husband may not believe you, but then you realized there were so many other things that could go wrong. Your husband is working long hours, and you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you gave him more stress (or worse, taking into account his fragile health). Your family already seems to be crumbling, and this would just devastate all your efforts to make everything normal. And most importantly (you’ve thought about this long and hard), what if word got out? Light and Sayu are still your children and you will not let them be put in danger. You can’t imagine ruining your son’s life—he has so much potential, and such a long, healthy life ahead of him.

“Everything looks fine,” Light finally says.

You nod once, and pretend that you don’t find the irony in his choice of words.

-----

So this is how life progresses.

Time passes by quickly but comfortably. Before you know it, Light informs you that he has joined the police agency and is now working with Soichiro on the Kira case. You’re worried (not because of what happened in the past) for the right reason this time—for his safety. But Light tells you that he’ll be careful, that this is actually a good thing because now he’ll be able to keep an eye on Soichiro to make sure he doesn’t overwork. Around the same time, Sayu graduates high school with grades better than you could have imagined (better than average, but not quite perfect), and begins college soon after. And with Soichiro home more often, life seems to be back in order. Finally.

Right now you’re setting tea on the coffee in the family room and listening to your son and husband go on about Kira. You admonish them gently, tell them not to talk about Kira when they should be relaxing.

Light purses his lips and Misa giggles, rests her head against his shoulder while smiling up at him fondly; the scene is incredibly picturesque. There’s the sound of a key turning in a key lock, and your stomach churns uncomfortably (force of habit, you tell yourself) as your daughter enters.

(It occurs to you then that Light and Sayu have not seen each other face-to-face since the Christmas before last, and even then you had kept Sayu busy in the kitchen and had made sure Misa was always with Light…)

Sayu’s gaze settles on Light, and the look in her eyes tells you this was a big mistake. “Onii-chan,”—her delight is evident, even without the smile—“Misa-san…” Here her voice wavers just the slightest bit, like she’s been disheartened.

You welcome her back home in what you think is a hospitable tone, and look at your son askance. He’s sipping his tea with cool indifference, looking at the rim of the cup rather than at his sister; you’re praying that his nonchalance is genuine and not a pretense.

Sayu goes on to approach the police officer (Matsuda, the one with the puppy eyes and once shaggy hair) sitting next to your husband. He is visibly taken with your daughter—she’s eighteen now, and prettier than you could have ever wished for—and while this would have infuriated you to no end had the circumstances been different, you’re actually hoping that your daughter flirts back with him. Sayu has never officially had a boyfriend (to the best of your knowledge), and you want her to find one to keep her mind off…

Your husband’s gaze falls upon you suddenly, expectantly; it takes you a minute, but you vaguely recall him saying something about—no, ruling out the idea of Sayu marrying a police officer. You respond accordingly, blurting out, “That’s right. There is no way our daughter is marrying an officer.” Luckily, your hasty response sounds valid.

You look at Light (the act is casual enough not to seem suspicious—is this where your son gets his nonchalance from?), and while his face is still convincingly impassive, his fingernails are digging into the palms of his hands and a muscle in his jaw tenses for a split second. His eyes flash and zero in on Matsuda, and suddenly he’s glaring, and for a moment the blasé façade is no where to be seen.

The metal tray you were just holding falls to the floor with a loud bang; fortunately for you and in all likelihood, everyone thinks it has to do with Matsuda calling you Mom rather than the cold look on your son’s face.

(No, Light! Your thoughts are desperate and haphazard and jittery. Why? Didn’t you end everything?)

You tune back in unsteadily. Sayu has just said something and everyone is laughing. Misa makes a slapstick remark about how immature Matsuda is, and Light reaches for his teacup and a spoon. He stirs the contents with infinite grace for someone who is doing something so prosaic.

“Yes,” Light murmurs smoothly, smirk ready and confident. “Sayu is much more mature.”

And you don’t have to look at your daughter to know that she’s smiling brighter than ever.

-----

Sleep does nothing to ease your mind either.

You dream that night—well, have a nightmare, really, that leaves you sick to your stomach and drenched in a cold sweat.

Your children are talking about something (their voices are too quiet for you to understand anything) in Light’s old room (you find this bit rather odd, considering this is your son at twenty-three and your daughter at eighteen), and you’re watching them from the other side of the door (you won’t get in to how unusual it is for the door to be open).

You call their names once, softly, trying not to be intrusive, but they don’t seem to hear you. Then, suddenly, like it’s some sort of counteraction, and before you have any idea what’s going on, your son has your daughter pressed against the wall. His eyes are narrowed, dangerous, and though you don’t want to admit it, disgustingly evocative. You call your daughter’s name, louder this time, and you’re not sure if she’s responding to you or to Light’s antics, but she’s giggling, and your son smirks smugly, like he’s won some kind of sick victory in a contest you never knew existed.

You take a reluctant step into the room, bent on interfering even if it means having to slap your children, when Sayu suddenly asks her brother, clearly and loud enough for you to hear, “Isn’t this wrong?”

Yes! your mind screams. YES, IT IS WRONG!

But you can’t get the words out because you’ve suddenly lost your voice, so all you can do is mentally scream at your children. You know that moving forward is inevitable (you haven’t tried, but your subconscious is telling you that it’s useless), and that all you can do is stand and shake uncontrollably.

“Do you want it to be wrong?” Light asks her, soft as a sigh, but the desire in his usually stoic voice is uncouth and clear, and his eyes, God, his eyes are that frightening scarlet and this time they won’t flicker back, and…

You watch in horror as his mouth descends upon hers, and while you’ve been expecting her to all this time, it still comes as a shock when your daughter responds and her fingers reach up and twist in his hair like it’s an instinct, like they’ve done this so many times before that there’s no need for formalities or shyness. The thought of this not being the first time makes you rock on your feet and you have to cling to the door frame to keep from collapsing because now your worst fears have just become a sick reality.

His lips are on her jaw line now, slowly but confidently moving toward the column of her neck, and she’s chanting his name, “Light, Light, Light…” like it’s a mantra, like he’s a deity instead of her brother.

Light chuckles a hoarse, arrogant sort of laugh that makes your blood boil. One of his hands moves off the wall and his fingertips brush against her neck and run down the length of her arm before he seizes her waist and—your mind is screaming at you to look away but you can’t for the life of you—pulls her hips to his, so that every inch of her is pressed against him in all the wrong ways. Sayu manages to gasp his name once, louder now, before he crushes his mouth back onto hers hungrily and needily. Her hands leave his hair disheveled and are fumbling with the buttons of his shirt now (of course it’s red, why didn’t you notice it before?), and you can tell by the way their bodies are moving and touching what they’re implicating and what they both want and just how badly they both want it.

You’ve already sunk to your knees and you have your forehead pressed against the door hopelessly, trying to cry but failing miserably.

He pulls his mouth away from hers, and she’s panting as she finishes the last of the buttons. “Tell me, Sayu,” Light’s voice is husky with need, but his smirk has become a grin showing each of his immaculately white teeth, “Tell me what you want.”

“Light,”—she’s breathing his name more than saying it, her nails raking across his abdomen—“Light.”

Your breath catches in your throat and you want to scream and call your children heathens for wanting each other like this and you feel like driving a knife through your eyes and hitting your head against the wall until you lose consciousness, but your body can’t move. You try saying something but your voice hasn’t come back, so you do the only thing that you can—

“I want you to say it, Sayu.”

—and bite down on your lower lip.

The coppery taste of blood fills your mouth and suddenly it’s completely and utterly dark; for a moment you think you’ve lost consciousness, but then your daughter is hovering over you and shouting, “No, stop, Mom! You’re hurting yourself!”

It takes you a long moment to realize that you’re in your room, in your bed, and that it was just a nightmare. Sayu helps you sit up, and you put your fingers to your lips and they come back tinged with blood; you must have bit down on your lip to wake yourself up.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” Sayu is blinking fretfully and pressing the sleeve of her bathrobe to wipe the sweat away from your forehead. “Did you have a bad dream?”

You look at her in silence because you don’t know what to say.

“Do…Do you want me to call Dad? Or even onii—”

“No,” you say, a little too sharply because Sayu immediately falls silent. You smile ruefully despite the uncomfortable throbbing in your lower lip. “It was just a nightmare, Sayu. You don’t have to worry.”

“Is there anything I can do?” She awkwardly tries to fluff your pillow while trying to clean your lip with her sleeve at the same time, and you gently push her hands away and ask her to get you a glass of milk and some gauze. Sayu nods and leaves all too eagerly, and you rest your head against the headboard with the edge of the blanket pressed against your lip.

The fact that it was all a dream does not comfort you like it should; now that your worst fear has surfaced, there’s no way you can lock it back up and pretend everything’s okay. This could actually happen, you realize (or maybe had happened, but you can’t bear to consider that right now), and you would be powerless to stop it. You look at right side of the bed, where your husband should be sleeping, and wish that he was there to comfort you, to tell you that it was all under control, even if that was just a feeble lie.

-----

“Sachiko, where is Sayu?”

You’re on the phone with your husband, and you’re concerned both because it’s not like him to call from work, and because of the urgency in his voice.

“I…don’t know,” you tell him uncertainly. “She mentioned going to the library to study but,”—you glance at the clock—“it’s 11:30, and that’s late for her.” You feel guilty for not having noticed your daughter had been out for so long, but the emptiness in the house had been so refreshing; you had a break from thinking about that nightmare…

The sharp breath Soichiro takes reels you back to reality and makes you shift uncomfortably on your feet. You don’t want to ask, but you’re obliged to, so you find yourself saying, “Is something wrong…with Sayu?”

He sighs uneasily, like he’s torn between telling you and keeping it all a secret.

“Sayu’s been kidnapped.”

-----

Your leg is shaking and you’re twisting your hands together like there’s some invisible towel that needs to be wrung. You’ve just gotten off the phone with one of the officers—Aizawa, you think he said—who’s told you that Sayu is on her way home. You don’t know how long it’s been since you found out about her kidnapping because you’ve been too immersed in guilt to bother looking at the calendar. You know that the kidnapping has something loosely to do with the Kira case, but you still feel responsible. What if the reason Sayu had left to study at the library was because of how you were acting? You remember the way you had looked at her that morning—like she was some sort of abomination instead of your daughter—as fragments of that vile nightmare plagued your thoughts.

To make it worse, when Soichiro had told you that Sayu had been kidnapped, the first thought to pass through your head was What if Light’s taken her somewhere? (At that time the thought hadn’t sounded absurd or foolish, it had sounded plausible.) You may not know your son as well as you used to, but you know he’s not a criminal: he’s working to stop Kira, not add to the mess surrounding the case.

There are three quick raps to the door followed the doorbell—it’s the secret knock Aizawa had warned you about, and you shuffle over to the door quickly and throw it open.

Your husband is standing there, looking tired but unscathed, and he smiles at you weakly, apologetically. You throw your arms around his neck and pull yourself close to him, kiss his cheek, and say, “Thank God you’re okay,” before asking him, “Where’s Sayu?” He plants a kiss on your head, tells you that Light is bringing her in through the back door as a precaution. A little shiver chases through you and he pats your back soothingly, assures you that everything is fine and that Sayu is just shell-shocked more than anything.

Of course, that was not why you were shivering.

You hear the backdoor open, and sure enough Sayu comes limping in with Light supporting her. You watch, trying to make your expression look concerned in that motherly sort of way instead of fidgety. He guides her toward the couch, one hand on her elbow and the other on the small of her back. (“Easy, Sayu,” he murmurs.) She sits down (collapses, more like) heavily onto the couch and curls there, burying herself into the cushions like she wants to hide. You get a good look at your daughter then; there are circles under her eyes and her face is pale and sickly.

“We need to see a doctor,” you finally say. You look at Light, who’s kneeling next to Sayu, watching her sleep with an unreadable expression.

“It’s too dangerous to go out right now, Sachi,” Soichiro whispers, squeezing your arm protectively. “We have the house under police protection, but…”

“The doctor can make a house call,” Light remarks suddenly. “We should probably get Sayu checked out, just in case.” He stands up, asks you for the number of the family doctor. You don’t know what to make of his attitude—he’s acting so warm and brotherly—and you deflect any further conversation with him by saying you’ll make the call, that he and Soichiro should just rest for awhile.

You’re walking to the phonebook when Sayu abruptly stirs. Soichiro is at her side instantly, asking her if anything is wrong. But she says nothing; she’s sitting up straight, looking around for…something?

“Light…” she says fearfully, and if you were holding the phonebook, it would probably have fallen out of your clumsy hands. “Are you still here?”

Your son steps out of the kitchen with a glass of water that he offers to Sayu, smiling strangely, “Yes, Sayu. Your brother is still here.”

-----

“Look, sweetie, isn’t it a beautiful day?”

Sayu doesn’t respond and you’re not expecting her to. What your husband called shell-shock has turned into some kind of trauma, and the ordeal has left Sayu almost completely unresponsive in a wheelchair. Soichiro has relocated you and Sayu to a remote cabin in the countryside of Japan—you convinced him to, because how else could Sayu possibly hope to recover? Plus, Light is clearly able to handle things on his own, and then there’s the obvious…

You comb your daughter’s soft hair with your fingers, hoping to get some sort of response out of her. You’re bitterly amused that your cheerful girl has become withdrawn from the world yet again, like there’s some sort of curse on your family. It’s not fair to you. It’s most certainly not fair to her. You wish that Kira and his megalomaniacal plans would just die, so you can have your husband back and put this stupid, dangerous case to rest once and for all.

The sound of tires and the purr of a car engine make you glance around fretfully. You start wheeling Sayu back indoors when the car comes to a sudden stop in front of the cabin. You recognize the car—it’s one of those incognito police cars you’ve seen the officers use—and you’re surprised to see Aizawa, Matsuda, and finally your son clamber out of the car.

You glance down at Sayu, but she just shifts wordlessly, and you begin moving towards the group slowly; there’s no point in deflecting. Aizawa and Matsuda make no move to meet you, but Light brushes past them and strides forward to meet you. You can’t see his face, and the way he’s walking towards you—shakily, without his usual poise and grace—is disconcerting.

You meet each other halfway. You’re startled at how drawn and ashen your son looks; there’s no luster in his eyes, no light sparking them whatsoever—his expression is as dead as Sayu’s.

“Mom…”

“Light, dear, sweetheart…” You move away from Sayu and towards your son, for once not thinking about any of his possible ulterior motives. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay? What happened?”—you look around at the pain-stricken faces of Aizawa and Matsuda—“Where is your…” Your voice cuts off with a choke, and you realize more quickly than you want to the horrible, terrible, awful truth without having to hear it.

“Mom,” Light looks away, but his bloodshot eyes betray him, “Dad’s been…”

“No,” you say, because it can’t be true—you won’t let it be true, “No, Light. No, no, no, no!” You’re feeling delirious and hysterical and you can’t stop blubbering no like a broken record. Your son is looking at you, silently imploring you with Please don’t make it harder than it already is…

“No, he has to be… No.” You’re being incoherent now. “He was just—the other day, Light, and then…but… There is no way—!” You shudder and look at Light, but now he’s looking at Sayu, and your daughter, oh, please, God, no, your daughter has her hand pressed against her mouth and her eyes are filled with tears. She looks at her brother, a pained expression framing her once blank face (and you wish you could find a twinge of relief in your daughter showing some emotion).

Is he gone? she’s asking with her eyes.

Light nods once, heavily, gravely, and before you know it, someone’s screaming an ear-splitting, agonized scream that makes your head throb and your legs feel limp. Your son is shushing you (you, why you?—shouldn’t he be shushing whoever’s screaming?), and you realize brokenly that you are the person that is screaming. Your eyes are blurred with tears, but you can tell by the voices that Aizawa and Matusda are huddled around you, murmuring words of comfort, telling you how your husband died valiantly, how he was the strongest man they’ve ever known, how much he cared for the innocent…

You don’t look for your son, because of course he’s gone to (help? console? check on?) Sayu.

-----

Yagami Soichiro
2009-11-11 ~ 1955-07-12

You kept the engraving on your husband’s headstone simple—you’re sure that’s what he would’ve wanted; your name has been carved next to his, painted in red (it’s the traditional color, not a personal preference), a sign that you’re waiting to follow him even in death.

The memorial service was a small one; counting your immediate family, Misa, Matsuda, Aizawa, and a couple other officers who worked with your husband were the only ones who came. But you liked it that way—you did not want a service packed with people who would suffocate you, pretending to feel sorry for you.

Most of the sparse crowd has already left—Misa left just a few minutes ago, and only because Light insisted she not be late for her audition on his account. Light is standing next to you, clad in a black suit with a respectably white dress shirt, and his face has never looked so wan; his eyes are listless and emotionless, and you’re wondering what is going through his head as he stares at his father’s gravestone. (Is he as angry as you? Does he want to kill Kira just as much as you do?)

His hands are resting delicately on the handrims of Sayu’s wheelchair. (Light offered to push her wheelchair for you, and what was the use in saying no? Does it even matter any more?) Your daughter has become the slightest bit more receptive to the world around her now that she’s found out about Soichiro (you know that two wrongs don’t make a right…), but for the most part she’s still invalid. You dressed her in a simple black dress this morning, told her that today was her father’s burial; Sayu had just stared at you, asking you why to a question whose answer you would never know.

You didn’t cry at the service—you haven’t cried since you found out—because there’s no point in crying anymore. Soichiro is gone, and no amount of denial or mourning can bring him back. But you’re at an impasse now because what’s the point of anything anymore? Your life is like a haywire rollercoaster, and you’re the unlucky passenger whose stuck on the stomach-churning, mind-numbing ride headed straight for Hell. (Who’s to say you’re life isn’t at risk, and before you know it you die?) You look at your children—your perfect but inwardly, profoundly flawed son, and a daughter whose happiness seems to come and go in a flash—and wonder what is to become of them. How is Light coping with Sayu’s trauma?—does he even care, or is he just going to watch her wither away like a fragile flower? And Sayu… What could possibly be going through her head? Does she still harbor those unmentionable, unthinkable, unforgivable feelings?

The wind picks up and ruffles your hair. You wrap your arms around yourself in a feeble attempt to shield yourself from the cold. Light notices, apparently, because he offers you his jacket. “No, dear,” you shake your head, tell him to keep it (because God knows your son getting pneumonia is not on your agenda). But he splays it across Sayu’s lap instead, and there’s a flicker of subtle resignation in her eyes.

“We should get going,” Light remarks. “It’s getting cold.”

“Can you bring the car around, dear?” you hear yourself ask. “I’d…like a minute or two. Alone.”

“Of course,” he murmurs considerately. Then, turning to Sayu, “I’ll get you situated in the car.”

You’re aware of how long a walk it is back to the car, that you’re leaving them alone, that you should be doing something to stop them, but you’re not. (There’s no point in trying—you can’t control their actions, just suffocate them with your looming presence, and how helpful is that going to be, really?) You’re looking at your husband’s tombstone, running your fingers delicately over where his name has been etched into stone, and wondering how life would have been if your husband hadn’t been a police officer, if he hadn’t joined the Kira investigation—no, if Kira didn’t exist at all.

And your children… Your eyes follow Light as he carefully, patiently pushes Sayu to the car. You can’t tell if he’s trying to make small talk with her, but there’s something oddly peaceful about they way they’re together—perhaps as brother and sister, you’ll never truly know—and you let yourself drift off for a moment.

You try to wrap your thoughts around how it would have been if Light and Sayu weren’t brother and sister, if she was just an ordinary girl your son had started dating, and you realize suddenly that Sayu is exactly the type of girl you have always (inwardly) wished

Light would date—demure, mature, sensible. This puts things in perspective now, and you’re not sure why because things aren’t any more clearer or easier to justify, but…

So with a strange, almost nostalgic feeling in your chest, you go back to watching your children—because at the end of the day, they’re just that: your children.

(Right now you don’t know that the next time you will see your son looking so peaceful is in a morgue—and of course, his white shirt will be stained red with blood.)

death note | teru + kiyomi colorbar

diluted_thought — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 01:47:51 GMT

A Teru/Kiyomi colorbar I made for Viola, whose birthday is tomorrow...or today, in Siberia? XD;; Anyway, happy birthday, Viola! I hope you enjoy this! ♥

Rules:
[ + ] If you plan on snagging this, please let me know! ~~Comments are made of win~~.
[ + ] If you choose to upload this onto your own server, please remember to change the URL of the image.
[ + ] Do not remove the credit. ~~Mikami will totally refuse to have sex with you.~~
[ + ] Please enjoy! ;D

Copy & Paste The Following Code
<center><a href="http://diluted-thought.livejournal.com/26657.html#cutid1" target="_blank"><img src="http://i281.photobucket.com/albums/kk201/diluted_thought/TeruKiyomiColorbar.jpg"border="0"></a></center>

count cain | riff + lucinda colorbar

diluted_thought — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 03:23:05 GMT

...Because inspiration keeps striking, and because Lucinda is one of my most favorite characters of the series. ~~Don't worry, Riff/Cain is still love. XD;;~~

Rules:
[ + ] If you wish to take it, please let me know. ~~Comments are wonderful~~.
[ + ] This does not have to be uploaded to your own server; if you choose to, please change the URL of the image.
[ + ] Do not remove the credit. ~~Lucinda will attack you with a bouquet of Victorian Posies.~~
[ + ] Have fun with it! =D

Copy & Paste The Following Code
<center><a href="http://diluted-thought.livejournal.com/16660.html#cutid1" target="_blank"><img src="http://i281.photobucket.com/albums/kk201/diluted_thought/RiffandLucinda.jpg"border="0"></a></center>

</div>


DEATH NOTE

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YUUGIOU
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TERMINATOR: THE SARAH CONNOR CHRONICLES
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	R U L E S [+] Please do not hotlink! Upload them to Photobucket or something of the like. [+] If you plan on using any of these icons, please credit me. [+] Please comment if taking, because that would be supremely awesome. ;D [+] Enjoy them! ♥ For credits and resource information, please go here.

DEATH NOTE

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CODE GEASS

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YUUGIOU

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SHARON DEN ADEL

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	R U L E S [+] Please do not hotlink! Upload them to Photobucket or something of the like. [+] If you plan on using any of these icons, please credit me. [+] Please comment if taking, because that would be supremely awesome. ;D [+] Enjoy them! ♥ For credits and resource information, please go here.