Death Note Fanfiction Contest

dn_contest @ 2012-01-23T01:34:00

2012-01-23T06:34:52Z

Hey guys--I'm just posting briefly to keep the community from being purged by Livejournal. There's some really amazing fanfiction up here, so I wouldn't want to see it deleted just because nothing new is going up.

SO I don't think anyone remembers me.

2011-02-22T01:33:59Z

I am the person formally known as "Marshmellooo" however seeing as how college and work has intervened, I was unable to post. For a while. Long enough to fail epically.

But anyway, hi, I don't think anyone remembers me. I used to make banners for this site as prizes. XD

I'm up for business once again, if needed. Just so ya know. ^^

Banner - Week 104

2010-04-19T20:41:57Z

And here is the last one. Ever. My time bannermaking here was short but ta for the oppurtunity.

And also congrats to chikyuushou! I wasn't too sure how to make this one but hopefully it's allright for ya!

Winner - Week #104 - Drugs

2010-04-19T16:10:12Z

Ladies and gentleman, this is your final winner. Congratulations to her (and to all of you), for the beautiful work done in this community.

Chosen by you:

Omission of Amplitude by chikyuushou

Banner - Week 102

2010-04-17T11:39:17Z

Gotta keep these going. Just got one left to do when we find out. I hope this is fine for you Vashti. It's not exactly the right setting for your story [The larger image I have is of a cafe but the lighting is vary blue and suggests wintery] but it's one I'm really quite happy with myself. To sound arrogant xD

Goodbye.

2010-04-14T20:50:05Z

Remember how, way back when, I made an April Fools post saying I was quitting the community? Back then, I never would have dreamed that I'd have to do it for real.

First of all, I want to apologize. I haven't been any good at maintaining the community these past few months. Part of this is because I recently moved, part of it is because I got distracted by real life, and part of it is just not being into the fandom anymore. I still love Death Note, I always will, but I do not currently feel like there's anything left for me to explore within the fandom. Many of you have similarly lost interest, in both the fandom and dn_contest in particular. I thought I could keep running this place despite these things, but it's come to the point where I can't even remember the deadlines. I used to plan out prompt ideas and special events weeks in advance. We used to have up to 20 entries some weeks, now one, two, or three is more common. Things have changed, and I think it's time to move on. After week #104, which I have put up a voting post for so that the authors who participated can be recognized for their work, dn_contest is officially closed for business. And in case anyone is worried, I will not delete the community--I will leave it as is. There is too much amazing work archived here to get rid of it.

Running dn_contest has been a wonderful experience for me. I had the privilege of reading some of the best Death Note fanfiction I have ever seen in my life, and I wrote stories I didn't think myself capable of. I also met kickass, amazing people, some of whom became close friends. I found out how generous some people could be--every banner maker who selflessly made gorgeous banners every week for months has been a godsend. Each and every one of you has been instrumental in making this community the great thing it was, and I can't thank you enough for participating. I hope that you all had as wonderful an experience as I did, and I'm sorry that it has to end now.

I love you guys. May you continue with your amazing writing, whether it's within the Death Note fandom or not. Thank you so much for everything you've done.

Voting - Week #104 - Drugs

2010-04-14T20:32:45Z

Hello hello! Here is the voting post, for you to enjoy!

Vote in this screened post for your favorite entry.

~You may not vote for your own entry.
~You may not vote more than once.
~Voting closes April 16th, 12PM (EST). The winner will be announced on Friday, and the banner will go up sometime during the week.

Omission of Amplitude by chikyuushou

High Tea by liam_sensei

Alphabet Soup by stk316

Winner - Week #102 - Abanonded

2010-04-14T20:27:37Z

Chosen by you:

Vigil by vashti

Week #104- Drugs

2010-04-07T22:29:14Z

Title: Omission of Amplitude
Characters: Young!Watari/Young!Roger (Let's say their 20's)
Rating: (Light) M
Word Count: 2,091
Warnings: Drug use, excessive hallucinations, yaoi-esque events
A/N: Originally written as a giftfic for V-day. I thought it fit the prompt, so yeah. &hearts Pre-Canon

Reds and blues and vibrant greens caught by the edges of the dying sunlight seemed to appear more alive than when the illumination was full. A particularly vibrant leaf caught the corner of Quillish’s eye and he stilled in his tracks, hooking his arm into Roger’s and pulling the younger boy closer to the source.

“Do you see it?” A lock of sandy blonde hair brushed his eye and Quillish impatiently swatted it away, leaning closer and closer to the giant stipule until his nose nearly touched the tip. It appeared as though he held his breath as he did this; his body tensing and his arm becoming tighter and tighter around the dark-haired boy’s until, with an exasperated sigh, Roger yanked his arm away, clearing his throat as he rested it to the side.

“Of course I see it, Quill. I’m standing here, aren’t I?” And there was a certain lilt to his voice which revealed that he was not half as unimpressed as he pretended to be. His posture, however, spoke in different tones. He now stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of cynicism as he watched the other tentatively reach out to run his fingers over the edge of the plant. “I will admit that this whole thing is a bit avant-garde of you.” A chuckle punctuated this as dark eyes slid over the room, taking in as much as he could without actually moving from his tracks.

The smell in the room was pungent, made even more so by it being a heated, enclosed space. No air was allowed in; each window being a sealed one, set to harvest the sunlight and increase its effects on the plants within.

“What you cannot see is more important.” Quillish turned the leaf slightly, running one, smooth fingertip over the underside. “This particular specimen is autotrophic. It converts inorganic material into organic substances. Essentially…” A pause as he turned to glance at the other boy, his smile widening to the point where Roger was forced to wonder whether or not there was a touch of madness to it. “It is self-sustaining. It creates its own food.”

“What is it?”

“Ah, I’ve yet to name it.” The leaf was released and the older boy fixed his gaze on the younger as he ran the same index that slid along the leaf over his lips. “I suppose that I could base its title on the components it was created from, but what is most important is that it has been bred to possess highly hallucinogenic properties.”

This earned an intrigued tilting of Roger’s head. Yes. Quillish knew that once this particular detail was brought up, it would raise the other’s interest exponentially. Predictable.

“It is only a side effect, of course. Not my original aim for this specimen.”

“ I see.”

~

“The walls’re melting, Quill.”

“No. You are experiencing a visual hallucination.”

“But…” A small shake of Roger’s head as he continued to stare at the sight before him: rippling and dipping in places, rising in others. The entire scene coming together as though a giant disturbance had manifested itself behind the black glass, pushing and prodding and trying so very hard to emerge into his personal space. “It’s moving. An ocean.”

The floor seemed to come up beneath Quillish and he shifted unsteadily, pressed his hands flat against the dirt… No. There was no dirt. Only thinly-laid cement. And yet it was gritty beneath his hands, itching and just a general bother. “Are there fish in your ocean?” It seemed like a perfectly logical question.

“The light. Is it fish?”

“….”

“Quill! Are there fish in the glass!”

“No. No fish in the glass.” And his mouth was numb as he answered; his tongue pressing uncomfortably against the roof. He swallowed once, twice, and though there was a sufficient amount of saliva, it was so dry. Quillish wanted to drink the world. To throw himself into what Roger thought was an ocean (It was decidedly not an ocean. Quillish was convinced that the blackness represented a pathway into space. No matter. Let Roger have his delusions.)

And then the ground tilted beneath the both of them when the younger stood to walk over toward the source of his interest. The closer he drew, the deeper the ocean, until his palms rested flat against the warm glass. (Warm ocean. Tropics. Nothing like England. No, no. This wasn’t right. There were fish in the ocean and fish needed the warmth because their blood…no. That wasn’t right either. Cold-blooded, depending on the species. But if the water was warm, the fish were warm-blooded and that meant that the two of them were somewhere else.) ….. “Where have we gone?”

“Space.”

It was said with such a condescending lilt that Roger curled his lip, prevented himself from turning to look at the other. Pompous bastard. One day, the fish would break from the ocean and consume him and then… then… A dry swallow. And Roger wished the water would trickle from the barrier.

“Don’t…don’t touch it. The doorway. If you open it, we will be sucked in.”

“Rubbish. Water doesn’t consume. It spills over. It is us who will consume the water.”

“Madness.” The breaths from the blonde boy’s chest were shallow; forcing themselves out at a rapid pace. Wait. He knew this. This was hyperventilation. It wasn’t unlike the reaction he had from standing on a high ledge, overlooking the ground below.

“No. You are mad. Come and touch it. It’s warm.” Palms slithered over the glass, moving left, then right, the movement of Roger’s hand catching the edge of his peripheral and creating a stream of beige movement that lingered for less than a second before being absorbed by the blackness. And it melted. Melted, melted, melted until there was nothing left and Roger turned abruptly, fixing his stare on the other.

“You’re breathing too hard, Quill.” It was apparent. Frightening. It made Roger’s breath halt and remain until he had to remind himself to inhale.

“…”

“Breathe, Quill. And come touch the water.”

“I don’t want to.”

Because one has to breathe to speak.

“Alright.” Languid steps took Roger to where Quillish was stretched over the floor; limbs sprawled out as though someone had posed him that way in a mockery of a disjointed mannequin. It was a sight, really. “It’s not what you think it is.” A crouch and he was almost level with the other, bringing one, shaking hand up to stroke over what could only be corn silk. It was smooth and cool between his fingers; such a blatant contrast from the surface of the ocean.

“It is. I’ve created it.”

“You’ve created nothing. Only harvested what was already there. Men are not Gods, Quill.”

“Aren’t we?” And this was said with a quirk of a fine, pale brow.

~

“You taste like the ocean.” The flavor of salt peppered the younger boy’s tongue; burning and perking on his taste buds until he was forced to pull away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It stung. Stung and lingered, like the prickles of one of the other’s experimental specimens. The plants loomed all around them; some hanging, some standing upright, their thorny stalks mocking and whispering; pompous taunts to which Roger only scoffed.

They didn’t know anything. They were only experiments, after all. Possibly to be destroyed, or harvested as compost for the next batch. Let them laugh. They were playthings.

And Quillish: the puppetmaster, the one who toyed with them daily, plucking a leaf here, stripping a stalk there, he only lay still, wide eyes fixed on the glass as a tentative mouth returned to his throat. The feeling was akin to tiny minnows prodding at his skin; slithering up before disappearing altogether, leaving him gasping and wishing for the water to wash away the sensation; abate everything so he could just slip into an endless sleep where the colors weren’t so loud.

And so his eyes closed.

And there was nothing.

“Hey.”

“Shh…”

“Where are you?”

“Death.”

But death had color. Perhaps it wasn’t a definitive hue, but Quillish could see the outlines of blues and greys behind his eyelids; melding together and creating new shades until it all became one, flat pigment. How boring.

“What is it like?”

“Bland.” His eyes opened, focused, took in the bright light emitting from the ceiling of the greenhouse and one, decidedly determined Roger slipping down his body. Cloth was tugged, moved to the side, dragged up until Quillish felt as though he were being stripped from the inside out. A hand moved to protest, to halt the other, but fell back onto the gritty cement; fingers splaying over the surface. The prickling was back again. Fingers curled into his palm. “What are you doing?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re dead.”

“Oh…right.” Right. And so there was no need for protest when Quillish felt the fabric of his trousers slip down over his hips, the momentary cold shock of skin coming into contact with air. “Does this mean that we’re forgiven?”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“Years and years.” The last syllable was cut off as Roger’s mouth descended and God, Quillish did taste like the ocean. Life and life and everything that was creation. It was his. It was Quill’s and nothing was going to change that. Not the looming tide just beyond the glass barrier and definitely not the condescending plants.

But they were so quiet, now. Everything was, save for Quill’s labored breathing and his own small sounds. As though everything had silenced for them; for this. And that was fine. “You don’t believe in God, anyway.” The statement was silenced by the flavor on the brunette’s tongue, licking up and up until there was no more and he could only kiss. Because Quill would never let him kiss his mouth, never let him have even a semblance of the flavor of those lips. This would have to do. He took it for everything it was worth, until pressure threatened to rupture the back of his throat and force all of the words to spill out. And so he pulled back. In fear. In respect. In whatever was preventing him from proceeding as he wished. Until a warm hand touched the back of his head, fingers tangling in strands and urging him back down.

Yes. This was better.

“Had you been born a woman, you would have made quite the harlot.” The taunt was relayed with the utmost affection; the corner of Quillish’s mouth curling up slightly at his own words. It didn't matter. He was lost. To everything. The light was glowing too brightly and his eyes slipped shut once more, giving in to the bland pigments and Roger’s mouth on him until he was murmuring, whispering something nearly unintelligible that if paid close attention to, resembled: “…not in front of the plants.”

But it didn’t matter.

Roger had won this round.

~

“Do you love me?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“I’m dead, remember?” And Quilish’s smile was positively wicked as the colors began to make sense again; his pants long since fastened and the sensations quickly becoming a memory. The ocean was receding, space was back where it was supposed to be and everything was becoming….rather dull.

“I hate you sometimes, Quill.” The air filled with the faint scent of tobacco, accompanied by tiny wisps of smoke, making their way upwards and dissipating into the thick air.

“No. You hate that you have thusfar failed to justify exactly why we do the things that we do.”

A scoff. “I know why.”

“I’m curious.”

“You’re dead, remember?”

A slight wave of his hand. Partly to dismiss the sentiment and partly to clear the air directly in front of him from that rank. “I need air.” And with that, he pushed himself up, the ground still sinking a bit beneath him. Quillish moved his hand to rest on Roger’s arm, but retracted it as soon as he realized what he was doing. The younger always did have a penchant for taking things for more than what they were presented as.

The sound of the end of Roger’s cigarette hitting the ground seemed to echo through the brunette’s ears, causing a wince as Quill pulled the entrance to the greenhouse open. And then it all came crashing down. There was never any ocean. And space was excuse for man to explain God using scientific means.

The sun was too bright in their eyes.

Week #104- Drugs

2010-04-07T20:50:52Z

Title: High Tea
Characters/Pairing: Roger and Watari with references to L.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Drug use and some language. Some possible OOC moments, though there's a reason for that.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Ohba and Obata.
Word Count: 2,433

High Tea

“When was the last time you checked in on him,” Roger said, leaning back against the cushion of the green couch. He was becoming so relaxed he actually stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles.

“This morning,” Quillish said from the small kitchenette in the side room. “He said he was about to visit the Louvre. Seemed in kind of a rush actually.”

Roger adjusted his glasses to hide his eye roll. Even with his friend in the other room, it seemed uncouth to do so out in the open.

“Pardon me for saying, but did you believe him?” Roger said, keeping his tone as even as he could manage and avoid a not so good natured chuckle.

The kettle whistled on the stovetop. The tea would finally be ready, though Quillish had a quirk of wanting to create the perfect tea spread instead of simply serving it. Roger looked down at his watch again. 6:45, past the point of being fashionably late with high service though he kept his mouth shut.

“Liam is 21 after all, it is really not my place to say anything if he were,” Quillish said.

Roger shot a glance and a cocked eyebrow in his friend’s direction, knowing full well he could not see it from his position.

Referring to L by his given name was a forbidden practice they had managed to train themselves out of the more in-demand, or rather notorious, he became as a detective. Roger had worked in intelligence, he knew how to tell lies with a straight face and even pulse. He never liked the scenario, however. It was paying deference to a scheming, manipulative little brat he never trusted as far as he could throw him.

In the end he was doing it for Quillish and ultimately the children of Wammy’s House, but Quillish’s occasional switch in address when the two of them were completely alone was jarring, borderline offensive. It was like the old bastard was doing it to get him going, or show some superiority.

Roger could hear plates clinking on the metal tray. Hopefully he would eat soon, though he should have been appreciating a rare moment with Quillish. He was usually off on some duty for L somewhere and seemed to be too good to make time for his old battalion mate.

“No, he instructed me to stay out of his affairs this weekend unless he had need of my services,” Quillish said. “I believe this is the first real holiday he has had in, what is it…three years?”

“He turned 18 in Amsterdam, did he not,” Roger practically huffed.

“Yes, yes, I know exactly what you are going to say,” Quillish said. The tone of his voice gradually grew louder.

Roger looked back to see him walking out of the side room with a silver tray. A steaming silver teapot sat in the center almost grandly with a few covered dishes that should have contained some scones and watercress sandwiches. He didn’t have the appetite for much more and the last thing he wanted to see was anything foreign or experimental.

Quillish put the tray on the mahogany coffee table, removing the silver covers to reveal the plump sandwiches and glazed currant scones he had expected. Roger leaned in to smell any odors from the pot. Quillish said anyway he had found an old blend he wanted to try and Roger grudgingly agreed. It was good to mix up the routine on occasion, good for the mind or something like that.

He expected something aromatic, though the pungent odor that met his nose made his brows furrow and jaw slightly drop. He looked up at Quillish, who laid out the cups with a poker face, though a small smirk snuck from the corners of his bushy moustache.

He couldn’t believe what he smelled, though the odor was unmistakable.

“Do you remember that little parlor outside Marrakesh, the one we stopped at after a week of desert maneuvers,” Quillish said.

Roger managed to pull himself from his amazement to recall what he was talking about.

“Yes, 1957 if I’m not mistaken,” Roger said. “But what the bloody hell is in there?”

“I remember we saw the dancers outside, most breathtaking Arabic girls I had ever seen,” Quillish said. He poured a cup, the brownish-green liquid accompanied by the stronger odor made it obvious what he was serving. “The censers all around, it just beckoned us to enter this little hut.”

“Where did you get that,” Roger said, nearly incredulous though slowly understanding what his friend was getting at. “I do hope you did not buy it from some hooligan off the street.”

“Oh Heavens no,” Quillish said, sliding the cup to Roger and pouring his own. “This is pure, the highest quality grown and processed by a small cooperative of farmers in the Turkish countryside.”

His pointed look suggested he was almost offended by the insinuation. Quillish Wammy had contacts in all avenues of government and commerce, Roger did feel somewhat silly to not have taken that into account.

He stared into the liquid, seeing small, brownish green flakes lingering on top but not enough to be obnoxious. By sight alone, Quillish knew how to prepare this, the fact this particular tea was sitting in front of him now steaming hot and ready to be drank was a little much to understand. He sipped it a few times back in his Army days, perhaps more than a few times. He could afford to then; he was young and off-duty he had little responsibilities save for getting tipsy, wooing women, and not doing anything to embarrass his uniform.

That was over 40 years ago. He was much more responsible now; a headmaster needing to make an example and put the fear of God into a house full of scheming brats.

“Is this really a wise idea,” Quillish?” he said.

Quillish shrugged, stirring the contents of his cup with a spoon.

“It’s Friday evening, Roger,” Quillish said. “Liam is in Paris and insists on not looking at any cases or receiving non-emergency calls for the next two days. I know I will not be on my computer or phone for the next several hours. Mrs. Rowan is on duty tonight, any emergencies arise at the orphanage you were simply indisposed.”

He was right, neither of them had any duties that absolutely needed performing. He looked down at the cup again. Perhaps a little indiscretion was healthy, a small break from maintaining order and rules. He could already smell his younger days beckoning him.

He looked up at Quillish again, seeing a polite smile in his direction and a gleam in his eye over the top of his glasses.

Roger sighed, lifting his glass, the steam from the contents was already making him relaxed; a placebo effect likely, or this tea was that strong…or it had been that long since he had a cup in front of him.

“To old times,” he said, raising the cup.

“To old times, my good man,” Quillish said with a smile.

Roger put the cup to his lips and sipped. The bitterness assaulted his tongue for a moment though the sweetness gradually permeated. Quillish had indeed made this well. He swallowed, looking at Quillish and seeing him take long, happy sips.

Roger sipped a few more times, wondering how long it would take for the effects to kick in. It had been a long time, but perhaps his constitution had improved since then.

A small feeling of relaxation crept in. He leaned back and sighed.

“It has been a while,” Quillish said. “It used to take you half a cup before you eased up like this.”

Roger took another long sip.

“We’re not kids anymore, friend,” Roger said. “We’re not made like we used to be.”

“I’ll drink to that, old man,” Quillish said. He took a long gulp and gave a happy smile. Perhaps the tea was working quicker on him.

Roger took another gulp. He enjoyed being this relaxed. It was the effect of the drug, of course; he had to remind himself of that. It was nice not to feel tense, not to care all that much about a group of brats tearing up the building or how the roofers were coming next week to fix some leaks.

Quillish picked up a scone from the tray, examining it with a smile, and taking a large bite.

“Go easy on those,” Roger said, another sip giving him a stiff smile. “I know how you would get after a few cups.”

“Oh no, that was with those little almond biscuits,” Quillish said, taking another bite.

“Oh yes, I remember those, the ones shaped like little moons and covered in honey,” Roger said. One of those sounded really good about now.

“Those would be the ones, warm little creations, wrapped right in front of us,” Quillish looked at his scone almost in longing. “Oh dear I would not want to say that in front of this delicious thing.”

Roger didn’t want to laugh, but he did anyway. He put his cup out and Quillish poured him more tea.

“I told you this would be fun,” Quillish said, pouring himself another full cup.

Roger blew on his tea, taking a few cautious sips around the hot temperature.

“You have interesting ideas on fun, Quillish Wammy,” Roger said. “Is this what happens when your regular companion is in his 20’s.”

“Are you suggesting I cannot make fun on my own,” Quillish said with a laugh that sounded like a restrained cackle. “You would be surprised, Liam has learned a thing or two from me.”

“Do I even want to know what you mean by that,” Roger said, a chuckle escaping him. “You don’t have little tea parties like this with him, do you?”

Roger picked up a watercress sandwich from the tray and bit into it almost voraciously.

“A little hungry are we,” Quillish said, taking his own bite into the scone.

Roger smiled around the rim of his teacup.

“Merely complimenting the sheer deliciousness of these sandwiches,” Roger said. “Perhaps I would have to be tipsy to enjoy your cooking.”

“I can’t disagree with that statement,” Quillish said, taking another long gulp and chuckling.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Roger said. He took another sip, realizing he was getting too caught in the moment and had to watch himself.

“Oh right right, do I serve the special tea to Liam? The answer is a resounding no,” Quillish said., leaning back in his chair. “He has no desire for…well…items of this particular nature.”

“So what else do you have to watch him on,” Roger said, grabbing another small sandwich and taking a large bite.

Quillish shrugged, looking like he was trying to form words that were not coming to him.

“I just don’t,” Quillish said, taking off his glasses for a moment and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He creates his own responsibilities, I’m simply along for the ride as it were. His affairs are really none of my business until I make it my business.”

“Oh that’s no fair,” Roger said, taking another sip and realizing his cup was near empty. “I can’t get a little gossip out of you, old man?”

“Gossip is for the simple and the bored,” Quillish said, practically inhaling the rest of his scone. “Which one are you.”

Roger guffawed at the statement.

“I really couldn’t tell you that right now,” he said. “I’m feeling a little one and the other.”

“You swing in every direction?” Quillish said.

“Perhaps, I’m adaptable,” Roger said, leaning his head against the cushion.

Quillish stared at him a second, his eyes clearly red. His serious expression then twisted into a stupid smile and a series if giggles.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you, other than the obvious,” Roger said with his own giggle.

“Nothing,” Quillish said with a straight face before bursting out into laughter. “Are we swinging both ways now?”

“More the one way than the other way,” Roger said with a sigh, wondering why the hell Quillish was laughing so hard. The realization flew through his foggy mind and he gave his friend a glare.

“Arsehole,” Roger said, producing more cackles from Quillish. It was rather funny, he couldn’t help but laugh along.

“You are too much fun,” Quillish said, wiping a few tears with his sleeve before putting his glasses back on.

“You need to be cut off,” Roger said, eying the teapot. No, he had to follow his own advice. He was this tipsy after two cups, he didn’t want to think what would happen on a third.

“Speak for yourself, I see that little gleam in your eye,” Quillish said, reaching over and grabbing a sandwich. “You seem to be enjoying this.”

Roger put his head back.

“I owe you some smart words,” Roger said. “I’ll pay them soon but not right now.”

“Not a bother, you’re credit’s bad anyhow,” Quillish said.

“Oh pooh pooh to you,” Roger said, giggling a little with how the words sounded. “You are clearly more clever.”

“No you are more clever than I, why do you think you have such an important job.”

“Because I’m easy.”

Quillish laughed harder, putting his face in the crook of his neck. Roger rolled his eyes but also couldn’t help but laugh.

“Filthy minded cretin,” Roger said.

“Did you say my name?”

Both burst out into laughter. Roger put his face in his hands; it wasn’t funny, he knew it wasn’t, but just thinking on that made it funnier.

Quillish gave his shoulder a good-natured pat.

“My my, I do think both of us have had quite enough,” he said.

“You’re the one who’s a lightweight,” Roger said, sitting up straight. “Let’s clear this away before you start drooling.”

Roger picked up the teapot, feeling only a small amount of liquid inside. Quillish must have only made a small amount.

“I do have a pot of Earl Grey warm on the stove,” Quillish said. “Perhaps we should move onto that before both of us get too silly.”

Roger nodded. He started to rise, feeling dizzy for a moment and stopping for a moment before coming to a slow stand. He managed to ignore more laughter from his friend.

“Do you require any assistance?” Quillish said between chuckles.

“I believe I can manage on my own,” he said with a grin, turning toward the kitchen area.

He gave his old friend one more look before going in.

The things this bastard dragged him into.

Week #104 - Drugs

2010-03-31T15:50:35Z

Title: Alphabet Soup
Author: stk316
Characters/Pairing: Watari, L. Mentions of Near, Mello and Matt.
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Word Count: 530
Author's Note: I haven't written anything creative for what seems like forever.

The rain. It was always soothing to him, in times of thought. Of need, desperate need. The tiny little droplets from the sky were a little epiphany in each and every splash on his hair, his skin, his shirt, his nose. He never needed to pray [For in his mind God could not exist] but if prayer provided joy and hope to others then the rain was his solace.

L was about to decide upon the futures of his legacy. The word was almost acidic to his tongue. Why would they thought of him as the meterstick to base a so called future L on was ludicrous. Individuality was the core of the human being.

And they were all, in every way, individual individuals.
But one of them would have to give that up.
To be a clone. Did they fucking learn nothing from Beyond?

Silence.
Not on his ears, but on his skin. His eyes leered upwards to see an arachnid covering him, it’s black skin shielding him from the rain. It was fighting with some warrior, holding a shield, who obviously wanted to kill it when all it wanted to do was run away. To escape, to flee, to be someone else other than him. How exactly it felt to be L, in the early days at least.

Then reality kicked in and it was nothing more than an umbrella. The warrior fighting with it was none other than Watari, the man who kept him sane. If it weren’t for him, he’d probably have left a long time ago in one form or another.

“Lawliet,” he spoke, his soft voice as soothing as the rain was.

“Yes, I know.” It was time to choose. L took the folder from Watari’s hand. Perhaps it could have been a shield in another life. And perhaps he would have been a warrior. And I would have been his…but life wasn’t all an induced fantasy.

He opened the folder, to a mountain of faces. All children, all little L’s in the making. No B’s or A’s. Only possible L’s, after L’s, after L’s, after L’s. He had already picked out a few who showed promise. He had already found their real names.

Nate River had the intelligence but his face was familiar.
Even the hair was like his own.
Strange they had never met. It could only be a conditioning of Wammy’s, there was no other reason.
But there was no history of abuse.

Mihael Keehl. Apparently he loved chocolate as much as L loved sweet things.
Another coincidence.

Mail Jeevas. He was completely unlike him. They did not look alike, he was fascinated with games, L never played them. But his mother was an addict.

Did they fucking learn nothing from B?

“Watari…”

“You don‘t have to pick anyone L,” he stood with a smile on his face. He always knew what to say.

“Thankyou, Watari-san”

And he nodded, taking the umbrella with him, knowing I wouldn’t need it, knowing what the rain meant to me, yet knowing I would be leaving shortly. Perhaps Watari knew more than me, perhaps he would have been a better L.
In another life perhaps.

Banners Week103

2010-03-26T15:19:01Z

TADA!

Week #104 - Drugs

2010-03-26T04:07:42Z

This week's theme is:

drugs

~Entries are due by April 2nd, at midnight (EST).

~Hello hello! I'm here with a prompt, finally. I won't be surprised if no one is interested in participating, but just in case I thought I'd give you something fun to work with. Write about L using cocaine to stay awake for long periods of time during an investigation. Write about Mikami using Viagra and the world exploding because Earth cannot contain his sexual prowess. Write about Sayu having to take psychiatric medication to deal with the trauma of being kidnapped. Anything you like.

~Please put this in the subject and tag lines of your posts: week #104 - drugs. Tag with your user name, too.

Week #103 - Sadistic

2010-03-26T04:03:45Z

We didn't actually have more than one entry this time around, likely due to my laziness and failure at maintaining this community. But we did have one entry, and I am pleased and grateful that people are still writing. phoebonica is the winner!

Chosen by you:

Worse by phoebonica

week #103 - sadistic

2010-03-20T20:40:06Z

Title: Worse
Author: phoebonica
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Teru, Gevanni, Rester. Mogi's in the background but doesn't say anything, as is his way.
Warnings: Erm, see prompt? Violence, threatened sexual assault. Excessive use of parentheses to indicate mental disturbance.
Word Count: 1639
A/N: I've had the general idea of this scene in my head forever. This prompt finally encouraged me to write it out. It hasn't gone quite the way I'd expected it to, but nothing ever does... Also, writing this gave me a new appreciation for the fact that Gevanni's job sucked.

The worst part isn’t –

(the worst thing of course is the gunshots and the blood and that voice cracked and twisted screaming impossible things and he can’t even remember what they were, only knowing that God was dying and that God was nothing)

- but after that. The worst part, after he’s taken into what passes for custody, is not the contempt in their voices, in their eyes. He’s seen enough of that before. It’s not the shattering of the pattern of his days, not just for this one afternoon but forever and ever. It’s not that they had to sit down and explain to him what he’s been doing these past two months, with finger puppets and simple sentences (and do it again when he’d stopped hyperventilating, and again when he couldn’t get beyond why would I kill her, we were friends, we had dinner together...)

It’s not even that the world is ruined now, and it’s all his fault, that the thieves and thugs and murderers will all creep back in, maggots spawning in the last few spots of filth God couldn’t reach. (Not God. He isn’t -) That should be worst, the guilt and shame and horror should tear him open with each breath – they do – but in the end, it’s not that knowledge that defeats him.

And it’s not the handcuffs.

That should be such a minor thing, after all the rest. They cuff him to a chair, hands behind his back, and there are three who stay to watch him. Two of the Americans, Rester and Gevanni (and that is not his name, Teru knows that, he knew it as well as he knew his own and if he could reach in and tear it out of himself then maybe, maybe he’d have everything else back too), and Mogi, of the NPA, who hasn’t said a word in all the time that they’ve been in here. The others are elsewhere, debating what’s going to happen to him, officially. Exactly where, and how, and under whose authority, they’re going to shut him away for the rest of his life.

The restraints don’t hurt, if he thinks about it. What he’s feeling isn’t pain. But he can’t move and he can’t act and their eyes are on him, watching, just watching, and behind their solemn expressions he can tell they’re all smiling. Just like that day. They didn’t touch him, after they’d dragged him to the tree and bound him. They left him alone, and everyone stared from the corners of their eyes as they passed and the sun was so hot and his wrists were scraped raw against the bark and something was crawling in his hair and Ito-sensei hadn’t seen or hadn’t cared because she never came to rescue him, no one ever did – and there’s no good in struggling now, he isn’t fastened here with rope in clumsy knots that he can work loose if he tries for long enough, but still he twists in his seat and cold metal presses into his skin and a soft, strangled sound comes from the back of his throat. I can’t take this anymore, I can’t –

They’re all on alert the second he moves, postures straightening, Mogi taking a step toward him, and Teru draws back against the chair, lowers his eyes quickly. Stupid, stupid. They’re looking for an excuse, anything he does that can be seen as a threat. He keeps still, tries not even to breathe – maybe they’ll let it go, maybe he’ll hold off the inevitable a little longer. Maybe he’ll be safe if he just keeps quiet.

But it’s already too late for that.

“Are those hurting you, Mikami-san?” That’s Gevanni (not Gevanni, he should know this) and if Teru didn’t know better, he’d think the man was honestly concerned for his comfort. Or at least concerned that he should be treated humanely while he’s under their care. It’s a trap, of course... and, Teru sees too late, one he’s already walked into. Because there’s no right answer. If he says yes the only reply is a sneer – aww, poor baby, sucks to be you, doesn’t it? – and if he says no well, then we’d better do something about that and even if he doesn’t say anything –

- and his mouth is too dry for him to speak now, even if he wanted to –

The worst part is not Gevanni’s hand knotted in his hair, wrenching his head back as he hisses “I asked you a question, Mikami. Look at me when I talk to you.” And it’s not the gleam in Rester’s eyes or the way that his tone is still calm and professional when he says “You don’t appreciate your position yet, do you? It’s time you were informed.” And not Mogi’s nod of acknowledgement before he steps forward and grips the back of Teru’s chair and throws him to the floor, smashing his head into the ground so hard the sparks that whirl across his vision haven’t faded before he’s kicked in the gut, and then in the face before he’s stopped retching, and then they’re all three on him at once and he can’t even raise his arms to defend himself and there’s blood running into his eyes and he can hear things snapping. And not the laughter when he screams or the promises that this can be so much worse, or the hand at his throat and hot breath against his ear and the insinuating whisper of “Know what they do to guys like you when –”

None of that is the worst thing to happen, because none of that happens.

He sees it coming, that’s all. The inevitable horror, so bright and clear that for one moment he thinks he can feel each blow, each shattered bone, and see his own blood splashed vivid red across the carpet. Apparently it shows on his face, too, because when he dares to look up the three of them are looking back at him with the same expression, not smirking or triumphant yet, almost bewildered. Or so he’d think, if he didn’t know better. They must know he knows what they want.

Gevanni says, “What?”

As if there’s any question of what. Teru is suddenly sick of cowering. He can meet his fate with some dignity, at least. He hardens his face, pushes terror down and away. “Do what you like,” he says, slowly, venomous, relieved that while his voice is hoarse and quieter than he’d like it is at least not wavering. “Just get on with it.”

Gevanni steps back, eyes widening. “Y-” he says, and then oh god very quietly in English, and then he starts to laugh after all, but not the way Teru’s braced himself for. It’s faltering and broken (exactly like, but no not even a little nothing will ever sound like that) and he’s staring down at his own hand, in – disbelief, is that it? Yes. As though he doesn’t understand where that sound is coming from, as though he’s as lost as Teru is.

“You don’t, do you?” he says, after a moment. “I nearly said, do you even know how many – but you don’t, now. Well, I can give you that one back. One thousand, one hundred and eighty, okay, that – that’s how many people you’ve killed, just you, and I know, because I had to do it after you. Only I didn’t have to look them in the face, and I didn’t fucking smile over it and –” His tone is rising now, words spilling out of him from wherever they’ve built up over months. “And you don’t get to look at me like that, you bastard, you do not have the goddamn right to be scared of me –”

“Gevanni!” That’s Rester. Gevanni falls silent, abruptly. Rester says something else, but it’s quiet and fast and in English and Teru can’t follow it. But he understands Gevanni’s murmured yes, I know, I’m sorry and the shaking hand that goes to cover his face, and the way that Rester sighs and rests a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Presumably the next thing he says is on the lines of you can go off duty now or you’d better wait outside, because Gevanni nods, and swallows –

(as if he’s trying not to)

- and then heads for the door.

He pauses in the doorway, and looks back, and this time – this time there’s no as if about it. This time Teru can see him clearly, everything that’s written on his face (for want of a better expression). The colour’s drained out of him, his eyes are ringed with dark circles, and he gazes back into the room – back at Teru, trapped in his chair and silent – as though he’s watching from behind a sheet of glass.

Teru looks up, and meets his eyes.

And that’s the worst part.

Gevanni turns again, sharply, and slams the door behind him.

In the silence, Teru’s gaze falls to the carpet, which is green and blue and will never be soaked in his blood, unless he manages to bite his own tongue out before his remaining two guards can stop him (this is the only means of suicide he can think of at the moment, and unlikely to work). He can’t feel the pain in his arms any more, not that there was any to begin with. He can’t feel much of anything.

I didn’t fucking smile over it.

You’re not God. You’re just...

He shuts his eyes, and he tries to go back to that day in high school, through fear and humiliation into the blazing, righteous fury that’s sustained him all these years. It won’t come. Gevanni’s face hovers before him, pallid and accusing.

When they finally take him away from the room, he doesn’t resist.

Banner - Week101

2010-03-16T12:00:51Z

Hope this is allright for ya!

As usual, when using, please upload to your own host. Ta

Week #103 - Sadistic

2010-03-15T07:16:58Z

This week's theme is:

sadistic

~Entries are due by March 20th, at midnight (EST).

~This prompt is what faustian_angel7 gets for winning week #100! I'm sure you can come up with all kinds of horrifying, sadistic actions for the Death Note cast to take. To be honest, I'm not sure when this should be due, so I'm just going to say Saturday. As some of you know, I'm in the process of moving, so it's difficult for me to be reliable about anything...in April, things will improve.

~Please put this in the subject and tag lines of your posts: week #103 - sadistic. Tag with your user name, too.

Voting - Week #102 - Abandoned

2010-03-15T07:12:49Z

Hello hello! Here is the voting post, for you to enjoy!

Vote in this screened post for your favorite entry.

~You may not vote for your own entry.
~You may not vote more than once.
~Voting closes March 18th, 12PM (EST). The winner will be announced on Thursday, and the banners will go up sometime during the week.

Vigil by vashti

Ashes To Ashes by tohellwithromeo

Priorities by axilet

It's Always the Quiet Ones
by sabriel75

Winner - Week #101 - Dog

2010-03-15T07:04:26Z

Alright ladies and gents, your lovely winner this time around is icequeenrex!

Chosen by you:

Before We Were Men by icequeenrex

Week #102 - Abandoned

2010-03-11T10:05:55Z

Title: Vigil
Author: vashti
Rating: PG
Characters: Sayu. Mention of Sachiko, Light, Misa and Soichiro.
Warnings: Emo?
Summary: Yotsuba arc. "I'll call Mom and say that I decided to live on my own with Misa, but my stubborn dad would be totally against it."
Word Count: 1033

Right opposite the gates of To-oh University, there's a small café.

You'd think it's an odd place for it, but it's really not. Sure, the view's not all it could be, with cars, buses and trucks trundling slowly outside, with cyclists and jaywalking pedestrians playing chicken beside those heavy wrought-iron gates, but this isn't somewhere you come to stare out of the window. It's one of those shops with a busy storefront, that doesn't do much sit-in business. There are better places to relax or to work, and the tables aren't that comfortable. Students grab tea or coffee in heavy cardboard cups, or sandwiches or onigiri with whatever filling they like. Not many bother to sit down; if you did, well, you might just have the whole place to yourself, if you chose your time of day right.

One of the place's few regular sit-down customers is a girl, too uniformed and too young to be a student herself. She runs in most lunchtimes, pell-mell and out of breath in her grey sailor dress, with her bag slung over one shoulder, spilling books and minidiscs and fashion magazines that her mother would swear she's too young for. The strap of her too-big bag's covered in buttons, for and against idols and fashionable causes. She sits as close to the window as she can, this middle-school girl with her tied-back hair, and orders the same thing every day, with the same righteous determination as the magical girls she'd swear she's too old for, but still watches when she thinks she can get away with it.

The server brings orange juice and a strawberry sandwich with the same brisk smile she gives all day long, and the girl mimics her mother's politeness, with her fists clenched beneath the table. He's gone to live at school, that was what her mother had said. The girl's sure she's the only one people try those weak excuses on. Really? That was quick! she'd replied, bright as a button. So he'll be back at the weekend, right? And her mother had hemmed and hawwed, and eventually murmured something unhappy about you know what your father is like. Tea, dear?, and the girl had nodded and accepted the tea and failed the dice roll on her smile, and still in the apron that was so much a part of her, her mother had put her arms awkwardly around her and promised it would be all right, the way mothers do.

Plodding upstairs afterwards, cried out and eyes stinging, she'd grabbed her cellphone, clamshell pink plastic heavy with charms, and she'd sent a text message winging out into the ether - Hey oniichan which one's the median and which one's the mean again I forgot!!! But it seemed all the plastic pandas in the world couldn't get his attention. She'd left him voicemail and email, and he'd ignored those too. Her father would speak to her mother on the phone, but still couldn't make time for his daughter. Her mother tried to act like nothing was wrong, when it was obvious to anyone with eyes that everything was.

Still thinking of her father, she'd gone into her brother's room on tiptoe to investigate. No empty hangers in his wardrobe, and more to the point, no books missing from the shelves - at least, none that she could make out. His toothbrush hadn't even gone from the bathroom until it got thrown out. For all the world, he might not have gone anywhere at all. If she closed her eyes and waited and just wished hard enough, surely he'd appear from nowhere just to tell her off? Oh, he'd been distant lately, caught up with university and with whatever boys did, and then with girlfriends, what on earth, when he'd always been so proper that she'd thought he'd have to reproduce by cloning.

It was like she didn't have a place in her family, any more - like a link in the chain had outgrown her. She'd never even thought of it in terms of him being there for her, until she'd managed to wear out her welcome in his room, and another girl had taken her place - a girl with blonde hair and a model's face, who was famous and adored and who she really wanted to like, except that she'd made a stranger of her brother and then stolen him away completely.

All this goes around in her head, as she stares out of the café window, pleading with everyone who passes to be the boy she's looking for. She misses him, and she's furious with him for leaving. She knows she should like Misa, because he does, but in her darkest moments she's not sure she wouldn't kill her, just to get her brother back, if nobody would ever know. Each day merges into the next, and each day her certainty's a little more forced. Soon it'll be summer, and if she doesn't find him before his school closes for the holidays, she won't know where to look any more. It's like he's vanished off the face of the earth.

At lunchtimes, she only has fifteen minutes to spend in the café before she has to rush back to her own school on the metro, yet she still comes and watches every day she can. It feels like all she can do. She clambers over the back fence and runs inside, earning a demerit from the hall monitor most days as she scrambles out of her shoes - "Oi, Yagami-san, you're late again! What do you even do with yourself, these days?" Sayu grins, carefree like she means it, and lies with all her heart. "Eh, nothing important. I lost track of time, that's all."

Week #102 - Abandoned

2010-03-11T00:29:46Z

Title: Ashes to Ashes
Author: tohellwithromeo
Rated: Teen
Characters/Pairings: Matt, Mello, mentions of L and Wammy's peeps
Word count: 3,818
Warnings: Underage drinking, some language
Author's Notes: Apologies for the ridiculous length. My first time writing Matt and Mello, so I'd love feedback! I've succumbed to the temptation of this pairing. Damn you, Sun B|

"I was eleven years old when I took my first drag."

I inhaled as I said this, as if I were demonstrating. Everyone insisted that smoking was bad. The images that were associated with smoking were often too intense to convince anyone otherwise. Tar formed in the lungs, nicotine (along with hundreds of other poisons) pervaded the bloodstream, breathing grew labored, organs turned grey and spotted, but the results outweighed the underlying effects of what it did to my body.

"I watch movies and play video games more in one day than most people do in a lifetime, and what I saw was immensely contrary – all the cool, chill characters had cigarettes hanging from their mouths, aside from the leather jackets and sunglasses... that’s probably where the goggles came in." A smile formed on my lips, and I laughed to myself, softly because I wasn't sure if anyone was there to hear me anyway.

"I remember the day I stole from Mello’s assortment of black leather, and found that the style didn’t suit me at all. When he walked in on my solitary fashion show, he burst out laughing before promptly beating me to a pulp for wearing his clothes. You’d think I’d have learned by now, but I can rarely resist the urge as I walk by his closet while he’s not around. I've only avoided his leather pants because they'd never fit in a million years."

Finally I decided to sit down, because I realized I was going to be here for a while and my legs hurt. "You, as ironic as it sounds, were the one who introduced me to cigarettes. Until then, I thought it was something only pretentious grownups or rebellious teenagers did, and you seemed to fit in neither category. But as I sat there, watching you stare into the distance with a far-off look as you had your first smoke just for curiosity’s sake, I realized that it was the one time I would be on the same level with you. You were just as interested to know as I was what the big hype was all about." I straightened my legs out and played with the grass, pulling out the blades that had burnt edges. Then, wincing and stifling a choking sound, you handed me the cigarette and said in a strained voice I only ever heard once: “'Go ahead. It’s disgusting, and you’ll never want to try it again.'”

"And you were right." I laughed again, louder this time, breaking the silence around me. "I held the cigarette between two fingers and straightened my back, as if I were some sophisticated bachelor acting suavely undercover at a party, like in those secret agent movies. As I inhaled, I remember telling myself that I would be stronger than you were at this... but in the end I coughed just as much as you had, if not more."

"Remember? Watari had discovered us, sitting on the back porch, and had demanded to know why we both seemed green in the face and sick to our stomachs, but I let you do all the talking – well, lying through your teeth, something you were too good at. Ha. Instead of dropping the cigarette on the ground and covering it with my foot, I hid it in my fist and tried to hide the burning pain that seared through my palm behind a fake smile."

Smoking proved to be an acquired taste. "I made another attempt later with the same cigarette I'd stashed, around the back of Wammy’s where I was out of sight of all the other kids on the playground. The second drag was just as bad as the first, but I wasn’t coughing anymore."

“I can’t breathe, you idiot.”

I coughed as I remembered Mello's first reaction. "Mello couldn’t stand my growing habit. Whenever I lit one around him, he’d growl angrily, stomp over to me, snatch the cigarette from my hands and stamp it out with his foot. It was only natural that someone with such a thin frame, so seemingly frail, would be adverse to cigarette smoke." I took another drag and blew a trail of smoke into the cold air, and for a moment I thought it might condense and form acid rain. Now wouldn't that be neat? "I only quit once, when Mello fell ill with bronchitis after I tried to hide the needs of my addiction in the late hours of the night. We shared a room, so it was understandable that the smoke would eventually take a toll on his health."

My head drifted down to stare at the ground again. I would have been sitting on the grass, but there wasn't enough for me to fit and I'd probably get in trouble. The cold cement beneath me made my butt hurt, though, so I shifted my weight. "It made me learn all too quickly that secondhand smoke was more dangerous than firsthand. But while he was sick, and a few weeks afterward in his recuperation, I couldn’t stop shaking, my eyes were always bloodshot, and it was difficult to concentrate on my games — sometimes I worried who was more sick, Mello or me. I longed for just one smoke, but when I’d come back to our room Mello would surely be able to smell it on my breath just as surely as I could smell the sweet chocolate on his, everyday. I fought it all back for his sake, but I was weak, and eventually I had to start up again."

Taking a few seconds to gather my thoughts, I swallowed. "I smoked even more when Mello left the orphanage."

My sense of loss had climbed exponentially. I knew deep down that he had left because L had died and Near had won, but... "Underneath it all I wondered if it was something I'd done. If I had driven him away. It came as a shock when I was left the only successor still at the orphanage, but at the same time I'd somehow expected it. I turned into a recluse, sinking deeper in the magical game world where I could always start over if I died. One pack daily turned into five; it grew increasingly difficult to acquire them without someone to secretly buy them for me, so I snuck out occasionally to get them myself. Don't ask how or where I got the money — for now, let's just admit that I resorted to drastic measures. What can I say? I was desperate for the one craving that was keeping me sound and sane on this earth." But smoking was only a substitute for something I'd let slip away.

You never even bothered to say goodbye.

"I hid myself behind my console, but I wore clothes that made me stand out, because if I didn't pronounce my presence I would dissolve into the background," I confessed. "Just as the ash falls from the end of a cigarette after the chemicals and paper've been used up; just as the virtual enemy fades when a simple combo of A's and B's kill it and it's gone, because it has no identity — it's just a tool, not even worthy of gender or a name."

"There was I time when I'd grown tired of my games and set them aside. I thought about life, and what it could mean, and what the overall point to it was. We all die eventually, no matter what we do with ourselves. 'You are dust and unto dust you shall return,' said the Bible, though I like to replace 'dust' with 'ash'— it's better that way, seems more appropriate. I was a meaningless existence. I spent too many nights alone, crying without the shoulder I'd had for nearly ten years until now, even contemplating suicide but rejecting the idea because in the end it wouldn't mean I'd see Mello again." My long striped sleeves hid the countless failed attempts at cutting, but only thin faint scars as shallow as papercuts, as I could never bring myself to do it— the pain I felt from being abandoned was pain enough. Even though they were pretty much gone, I rolled up my sleeve and showed them off anyway, bracing my bare skin for the icy bite of the late winter frost. "Around everybody minus one, it was too easy to pretend I was okay when I wasn't, not really."

I paused for a few minutes. It wasn't easy talking about my glass-half-empty life, even when it failed to reach anyone's ears. "Although I'd moved into an apartment as far away as possible from Wammy's, cutting off all contact and erasing any information about me left behind, Mello had somehow managed to find me."

"My cellphone ringing was the first clue, and at three in the morning no less. Who would call me at this time of night? Who would call me, period? I knew no one. I'd bought the cell purely for its convenience; it wasn't like I really had anyone to call aside from the woman I chatted with at the bar from time to time and my neighbor who sometimes played video games with me on nights that seemed especially lonely." I sighed in recollection. "But when I heard Mello's voice on the other end, I suddenly couldn't recall their names."

There was a long pause. I could hear my old friend's breath, shaking and the sound of his mouth opening and closing before "...Matt?"

"For years I'd imagined what I would say should we meet or speak again. In my head or aloud to the bathroom mirror, I'd gone through everything I'd say and anything with which he might respond. I thought of it as an RPG— a set of choices to choose from, but there were only so many right answers. When it came down to it now, however, my preconceptions were tossed out the window. Just my name coming from his voice tightened my throat. I could barely trust my own voice enough to get the words out, and I still don't know why these exact words came to mind and formed themselves on my tongue:"

"...Y-You have the wrong number."

"It took all my strength not to add 'I'm sorry,' but in the end I couldn't stop myself." My thumb came down on the End button halfway through my apology, and I found myself crying, the phone still clutched tightly in my hand as I fell asleep with tearstained cheeks.

I'd been fully prepared to face you— that is, until you came into the picture and screwed it all up. I'd had it all down, practiced and memorized, but with one word you tore up my script and threw it into the unforgiving flames. I was a fool to think you would disappear from my life completely.

I'd never expected that you'd actually try to come back.

"In the morning I refused eat, because I considered it self-inflicted punishment for what I'd done. I hadn't picked the right answer. GAME OVER. Except this time I'd run out of lives."

"I didn't eat for the rest of the day, too. I wasn't not hungry— I was famished, in fact, and the smoking had the opposite effect to easing the sense of starvation that ate away at my stomach— but I just could not keep anything down; what little food I tried to eat forced its way back up my throat."

"At, uh... 9 PM the next night, only a few crackers and some soda had gone down, my stomach having complained all day for being neglected (ha. Now it knew how I felt). There was a knock on my door, and I trudged my way to it, demanding to know who it was before I let them in."

"'It's Brandon.' And that's all he said. That's all he usually said, my neighbor was the silent stoic type, but this time seemed different, awkward. But my head wasn't really in the right place (somewhere in my digestive system, most likely), so I opened the door only to stumble sideways when Mello nearly trampled me as he stormed into my apartment." Brandon shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his attention to me. "You okay, man?"

"I'm fine," I lied, attempted smile forcing its way to a grimace.

He shrugged, muttering something that sounded like 'Okay.' Mello brought his arm around and slammed the door in Brandon's face, then held up a large plastic grocery bag. I squinted; it took me a moment to make out the dozen cans of Heineken and the pink outline of a Pepto Bismol bottle.

"You're not fine, stupid," Mello growled, but I still spotted some concern in his tone. "I'm surprised you're still alive."

I smirked, stifling a cough with a hand to my chest, the other gripping the wall to keep me from falling over. It was a good thing I couldn't move without my head spinning, otherwise I would've wrapped my arms around him by now. "Did I really sound that bad?"

He returned my smirk with a grin. "Bad enough for me to get all my best men to track you down."

"Three doses of thick stomach medicine and a few hours later, I'd managed to keep down one beer while I hesitated to drink the last half of my second. The combination of the two seemed counter-intuitive, but the alcohol had taken its effect and by now the schematics of everything didn't matter. A formula for disaster, alcohol for a minor, not to mention two. Mello sat on the sofa across from me, our legs intertwined after we'd drunkenly wrestled like we used to at Wammy's. The blond was on his fourth beer— his face was flushed, head hung back over the armrest, and laughter bubbled from his throat as he sluggishly waved his hand about and muttered something unintelligible." I laughed once. "Doesn't sound like him at all, does it? But believe me, I'm telling the truth."

"Mello?" I asked cautiously after it had gone too quiet. This wasn't like him at all. Then again, I hadn't seem him in years, much less under alcoholic influence.

"Who walks among the famous living dead," he sang with a lopsided grin. His singing voice wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either.

"What?"

"Drowns all the boys and girls inside your bed..."

"Mello, you're scaring me." "Ha. No, what scared me more was how much more sober I was. I finished my beer in one swig and grabbed a third, hoping to drink myself to his level of drunkenness."

"And if you could talk to me, tell me if it's so..."

"I had no idea what the hell kind of song this was, much less why Mello was singing it in the first place, but I laughed and tried to sing along even though I didn't know the words. Together, our voices butchered the song and any chance at harmony." My hand came up to my mouth as I stifled another laugh at how ridiculous it was.

"That all the good girls go..." Mello's grin widened enough to split his face in half. He opened his mouth as if he was going to sing more, then closed it. "I forgot the rest," he deadpanned. Were I sober, I would've caught his lie.

"'The hell was that?" I asked, kicking him jokingly.

He was calmer and more irate now, more himself. "Fuck if I know."

I sat up to put down my beer and light a cigarette, then stopped just as the flame touched the filter, glancing at Mello, waiting for a furious reaction. "Oh. Sorry." I fumbled to close the lighter and reached for the nearest ashtray.

He peeked one eye open from underneath his mess of hair, then let his head fall back. "Do what you want."

"Mello had certainly changed." I laid back and ran a hand through my hair, tears springing to my eyes. "As much as I enjoyed his company now, I began to wonder how long it would last. How long would he stay? Would he leave me again? Did he expect that he could just show up and disappear just as quickly?" I asked these questions as if my confidant had all the answers.

"Why did you leave?" It was painful to say. Alcohol was a key to the door that locked away my inhibition and restraint. Mello's smile faded as my voice choked. "Was it me? My addiction? What did I do?"

Mello groaned and pulled himself upright with some reluctance, letting his head hang forward and hair shield his face. His hands cupped around the beer can, fingers tapping the sides absently. "It wasn't anything you did."

The tears came fast now, rolling down my face, but I didn't bother to wipe them away. I wanted Mello to see them, as if it were my intention to make him feel guilty. Or maybe I was just too drunk to do anything about them. "You abandoned me." Suddenly I was the one feeling guilty for having accused him of having done wrong, even though these words seemed truer aloud.

He was silent for a few moments, probably thinking of how best to put his answer. Finally: "...I couldn't take you along."

I sniffled, wiping my nose with all sides of my hand. I felt gross and wet and sick, like I would throw up again. "Are you coming home?" I asked hopefully. I wanted nothing more than for him to stay with me. I'd give up my games, my smokes, anything if he would just be in my life, however long that turned out to be.

"...No."

Heart falling, my eyes drifted down to stare into my lap. "I was to be abandoned again, left for dead on the side of the road like a dog. I'd always been compared to a dog — loyal when it came to Mello, willing to unconditionally love him no matter how many times he kicked me down. But being kicked down was the hardest part to bear." I tore out a few blades of fresh grass now, plucking each one out forcefully in emphasis as I spoke.

Mello gently pushed my cheek with his knuckles in a fake punch, then cradled the side of my face in his hand, wiping my tears with a few strokes of his thumb. "Physically, it was cold from the beer he'd been holding, but to me it seemed hotter than the sun. My face flared up at his touch. He'd never done anything like this before: like he was trying his best to comfort me."

"He growled, as if I were some naïve nuisance who couldn't grasp what he was saying — and I probably was." He slid his hand up to tousle my hair roughly. "You're the one who's coming home, idiot."

My cigarette fell from my fingers and dropped to the sofa cushion with a hiss. "The look on my face must have annoyed him, because he frowned, showing teeth." "Get it together, Matt. Just sell the apartment and come with me." I blinked in surprise.

"Now?"

"Are you fucking serious? At least wait until we're not blind drunk."

"It hadn't occurred to me that more tears had formed, spilling onto his hand, but I realized it when Mello let out an aggravated sigh and angrily ordered me to stop crying or he'd kick my ass. I couldn't help but throw my arms around his neck and pull him as close as possible. Naturally he protested, trying to shove me off, and would've punched me in the gut if I still weren't feeling nauseous. I didn't bother to count how many times I thanked him as I buried my face in his shoulder and took in the scent of his hair that brought back too many memories, refusing to let him go. Eventually he patted my back twice and asked, 'Done yet?'"

I gave him one final squeeze before lowering my arms and nodding. "This is for the Kira case, isn't it?" I ventured.

Mello finished his beer, dropping the empty can to join the collective pile that had scattered on the floor, and coughed once. "Sort of."

"Then he looked me square in the eyes and said three words that utterly erased any feelings I'd had of being abandoned. I wasn't just a convenience to him, I couldn't be discarded." My smile grew with each word, so wide my mouth hurt but I didn't care. "I was determined from there on out to prove to Mello that I could be of use to him, and not just after the case, but always. Always. It was my new favorite word, right up there with 'forever,' 'eternally,' and 'permanent.'"

I would have hugged Mello again, but his arms were crossed and there was an agitated look on his face, so I settled for a cheery smile and in my head repeated over and over those three words he'd said to me:

I need you.

My cellphone vibrated in my pocket for the third time, something that until now I'd thought was just my own body shivering. I glanced quickly at the screen.

M. Let's get moving.
I don't have all day.
________________
sent 01/26/2010
11:35:40

Then, for some reason, I saluted to the stone cross with my free hand. "Sorry, L. Duty calls."

Where is Mello now?

The question might have come from beyond the grave, or maybe I'd just imagined it. But it had sounded distinctly like L's voice: steady, clear, and monotonous. I answered regardless. "Back at HQ. He's planning something big, but he hasn't told me the details." I shrugged. "Not like it matters, I've found it's better not to question him. I just do what he tells me to do."

And you're okay with that?

"Absolutely," I said without hesitation. I stood, dusting whatever may have gathered front and back off my pants, and shoved my now-freezing hands into my coat pockets. "It felt nice to talk to you, even if you're probably not there to listen. I'll come back tomorrow if I'm still kickin'."

I lit my third cigarette and was about to walk off when I heard L's voice again, like it was in the back of my mind, as if my presence still rooted him here.

I never meant to abandon you.

L may have seemed like a blank slate, but he did have emotion. The voice I heard was edged with regret and pain, a plea for my forgiveness. But all of that was behind me — there was nothing to forgive. I looked back at the tombstone and smiled brightly, now sure that L was there, watching from afar, always.

"I know."

Voting - Week #101 - Dog

2010-03-09T02:45:51Z

Voting post, coming atcha! Let me know which story with dogs involved you liked the best!

Vote in this screened post for your favorite entry.

~You may not vote for your own entry.
~You may not vote more than once.
~Voting closes March 11th, 12PM (EST). The winner will be announced on Thursday, and the banners will go up sometime during the week.

Normality by ca_te

Before We Were Men by icequeenrex

Week #102 - Abandoned

2010-03-08T17:24:02Z

Title: Priorities
Characters: Light, Soichiro
Rating: G
Word Count: 530
Summary: In the dark, the boy waits for his father.
Notes: Yes, I am so original.

The boy waits. The candles have long since been blown out, the cake put into the refrigerator for the next day. In the dark the debris of the party skittles along the floor like strangely-shaped mice, and their whispers turn into half-formed words in the boy’s too-imaginative mind. The clock chimes in every now and then in clear, crystal tones. Every time lights pass the door, the boy will jerk out of his light doze, hope in his eyes; only to slump down again in something that is very nearly disappointment.

(He is a big boy now. Only babies cry. He will not cry.)

Of course he will be fast asleep when the right lights glare through the door this time, and his father’s heavy boots thud down on the step. But he stirs, and wakes, when his father lifts him gently in his strong arms, and bear him towards his own bed and the softly snoring sister that lies not far away. “Dad?” he whispers, and feels the steady steps stop, just a moment—but not the heartbeat, beating reassuringly beneath the warm shirt.

“I’m sorry, Light,” his father says, quietly. “I wanted to be here—”

“It’s okay,” the boy says in his clear, beautiful voice. “I understand.”

And really, he does. There’re more important things that his father has to do. More important than some stupid birthday that comes round every year, anyway, and time and thieves running away wait for no man.

And so like a big boy he suffers his father’s kiss with a certain smile that children start to acquire around their parents after a certain age, and lets his father tuck him into bed. And like a big boy he turns his face to the wall and has to swallow past the lump in his throat, rub at his itchy eyes, long after his father’s feet have gone away down the corridor.

It isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last; as the boy understands it, Crime Does Not Sleep, and so for a long time neither does he, staring at the blank greyness of the wall and wondering; of the criminals stopped this night, the criminals born this night, and the deeds that never changed but for the hands that committed them. He wonders how many his father has put in jail. Not enough, it seems. Never enough.

Where do they all come from?

Finally, he sleeps; and in his dreams he looks down upon the city with a wise and benevolent God-eye, and picks up those who have gone bad; boxes them up carefully, in grey and featureless cells, so that they can never escape and harm anyone else again. When he stacks them up they form a tower that nudges against the sky, and here he laughs in childish delight as the men within shake their tiny fists at him in rage. All who pass look upon him and his tower in wonder, and among them is his father, waving and laughing, for once out of his uniform, and his face is young and unlined.

“I’m so proud of you, Light,” he calls.

In his sleep, Light smiles.

-end-

Week #102 - Abandoned

2010-03-07T16:39:05Z

Title: It's Always the Quiet Ones
Author: sabriel75
Characters/Pairing: Near, Light, memories of L, Mello and Matt
Rating: Teen
Warnings: none
Word Count: 641
Author's Note: Something I wrote ages ago for my series Finite Sensibilities.

People have hope because they cannot see death standing behind them.

L, an enigma that had played with a great many variable disguises, easily disarmed people with his pretense of idiocy. The stereotype had been demeaning and Near hated the class clown trick. As undeniably annoying as it was, it worked quickly and effectively, and who was Near to tell the great and mighty L how to act.

Mello, a tornado of pithy, righteous fury and prettified punk slash emo slash thug demanded people's attention. His tone never softened. He never wavered from truth, dignity or prideful carriage and yet, he would seduce Matt with looks, secreted smiles and gentle pats of assurances. Near had known if Mello had ever given him the chance, he could have excelled, would have provided the care Mello sought in that regard too.

Matt, untouchable and unstoppable when faced with the headiest of tempers, swayed people with his platitudes, an easy-going smile and winning social graces. He never let on if he felt out of place or mishandled or unfairly treated, and people gravitated to him like sugary sweets and chocolate pacified L and Mello.

Near, neither strong in stature nor charismatic in appearance had perfected his mien from birth. Helpless wasn't hard to affect when one essentially was. At least at birth, Near had been… or so he thought bemusedly since he really chose not to remember much of his early childhood. Dwelling on the past rarely interested him or humored him. Those memories were best left where the tangled webs of his mind stowed them. A slight nuisance but entirely unnecessary in the "big picture" scheme of things. But the little ache they left imprinted on Near's psyche only added more depth to his performance. Frankly, he had been impressed with how well he had used his fate-induced angst to his benefit.

And so had they.

L amusedly watched as he manipulated people into doing for him what he was quite capable of doing himself, even going so far as to participate in the joke when he was in a good mood.

Mello felt the sting of the insult every damn time, never once imagining that his bravado persona brought out the same hateful spite in Near for the very same reasons. When were they ever truly free to be anything more than their pretenses?

Matt enjoyed Near's appearance of childish frailty. Something in his nature clung to escapist mentality and Near did little to nothing to jar him out of those fantasies. They played together in quiet, unassuming companionship that Near missed just as much as Mello's raging and L's teasing.

But then again, they had never seen him as anything more than the shell of humanity that embodied his true essence. They had never known him to be more…, more than capable of outliving them until it was too late.

Near had always known his mind was the deadliest.

What a wonderful feeling to know that Kira recognized his lethality from the very beginning! Had always treated him like an opponent with skills, someone to be wary of…, someone who was more than a child playing the pity card. Even as he marveled at Light's ability to wrap all the deceptions of L, Mello and Matt into one completely uniform and masterful guise and pondered how one could fight a "god" that knew how to play-act every stop the Wammy boys had pulled; he knew deep down that Kira was afraid of him.

The flirtatious banter hidden in challenges made over the intercom. Smiles, diabolically spurred but respectful too. Purred exchanges with hinted promises of more.

Kira was having just as much fun as Near was. But he was desperate too.

And nothing…, if anything, had ever stroked Near's ego so intensely than the frenzied recreancy he heard in Kira's voice.

Banners Week100

2010-03-07T14:06:39Z

Well here we are again! Hope it's liked!

As usual, when using, upload to your own host. Thanks.