[private] i'm here to remind you of the mess you left when you went away
[As he crashes out of the kitchen, Light keeps his footsteps going: the neat, regular rattle of steps, giving nothing away. But he can't help but sink forward a little: one hand collapses onto his face, clawing. He doesn't want to see. To remember.
That Near - the sight of him - it had been as if Light was floating. All the worst things he could imagine, all the things he'd lain awake in the dark and thought of - well, Near's Light hadn't begun to do what Light himself could think of. But what he'd done? Would he really taint himself that way, stain everything he'd tried to do with that kind of sadism?
(it would be wonderful, sweet, right, they deserve it - but it wouldn't be fitting.)
As for the rest of it - he'd given out one of his secrets, to try and protect himself. But Near had - gloried in it, and it had shown. He'd known too much: someone had given him the tale. It had been as if - as if he'd gone through it all over again. Not the pain and the blood and the hideous countdown, but what he didn't notice at the time, and remembers only in retrospect: the eyes, and the disgust: the contempt of it.
The hand drops from his face as he rounds the corner, moving fast, eyes secluded. He's heading for his room, for the top of the stairs, for a quiet corner, anywhere where he won't have to face another human being.]
[[OOC: private to smallpackaging. Takes place immediately after this thread.)
That Near - the sight of him - it had been as if Light was floating. All the worst things he could imagine, all the things he'd lain awake in the dark and thought of - well, Near's Light hadn't begun to do what Light himself could think of. But what he'd done? Would he really taint himself that way, stain everything he'd tried to do with that kind of sadism?
(it would be wonderful, sweet, right, they deserve it - but it wouldn't be fitting.)
As for the rest of it - he'd given out one of his secrets, to try and protect himself. But Near had - gloried in it, and it had shown. He'd known too much: someone had given him the tale. It had been as if - as if he'd gone through it all over again. Not the pain and the blood and the hideous countdown, but what he didn't notice at the time, and remembers only in retrospect: the eyes, and the disgust: the contempt of it.
The hand drops from his face as he rounds the corner, moving fast, eyes secluded. He's heading for his room, for the top of the stairs, for a quiet corner, anywhere where he won't have to face another human being.]
[[OOC: private to smallpackaging. Takes place immediately after this thread.)