[ooc] [fic] the gift.
Ficwriting: like running a marathon, but without the free bottles of water and the shiny silver blanket at the end. This one was for the_gabih at comment_fic; it's a songfic for "Get Out Alive" by Three Days' Grace.
If I go, I can only hope that I make it to the other side.
Sayu watched some ridiculous things on television. Not that Light didn't, but at least he had the sense to do it in his room.
One of her favourites was about a badly-dubbed American girl, who was blonde and fought vampires. Sachiko would make her turn it off, and Light would play his usual game of lipreading what the actors had said. He was sixteen, unsure of his place, and one of the lines had resonated with him. Death is your gift. He'd never cared to see the plot resolve, but that line had stuck around.
He hadn't thought of it when he found the notebook, when he read the rules on its cover as easily as breathing. He hadn't thought of it when he'd shrugged and written down the very first name. He hadn't thought of it as he'd panicked, and told himself that it couldn't be real. But he'd thought of it in the hours afterwards, his mind become the devil's plaything. A fairytale; a frustrated child's power fantasy. Trails of breadcrumbs leading to his destiny. It wasn't real, but for just these few hours, he was going to pretend it was.
So it had been there as the truck mowed the second name down in front of his eyes. It had been there as he knew himself a murderer, and fled into the alleyway to retch and let the freezing November rain drench him. It had been right there when he turned his back on what he'd done, turned it right around to paint himself white again. To force the rain itself to wash him clean. Death is your gift.
If you want to get out alive, run for your life.
Reduced to an understanding, it had been there when L died - that man who'd claimed to be his friend, but who they both knew was as great a liar as Light himself. All those memories of the time Light wasn't truly there, hazier by the day, but enough left over that he'd thought, What have I done?. Only appearances, of course. He'd had no time for such sentiment, not with other questions to think of: Is this really it? Is it really over? It had been there when he realised it really was; L, who'd threatened his image and his life in front of the world, who'd been the only one who could stop him; L was dying for his sins. It had been there as the gloating disbelief seared him clean, fire and acid and glory.
It was there when he realised circumstances had trapped him, that his father couldn't be dissuaded from taking the shinigami eyes. It was there when he clenched his fists in his lap and gave him the order to make the trade. It was there when he worked to soil his father's dying moments with murder, when he screamed his frustration at the man's stupid human weakness, and then realised it wasn't the most important thing at all; that his father had gone forever to his grave. That he'd gone believing Kira evil, and Light's work a sham, and could never, never, never be shown the error of his ways. You're not Kira, Light. I'm so glad.
If I stay it won't be long until I'm burning on the inside.
And it had been there at the very end, when he'd made people and events into warp and weft and spun a design all his own. It had been there when he'd walked into the warehouse and known it for a fact - his victory, his apotheosis. It had been there as he revelled in revealing himself, as he'd done so many times before. I win, Near!
But by the time he saw himself exposed, it had gone. When he'd gathered himself to make his case, he'd had only the barest inkling of it. And then Matsuda and the bullets had crippled him into a writhing, begging mess of mindless agony on a concrete floor, and it had still been gone. Only at the very end had it returned, when he'd seen his own name in wavering characters on a blank page. His own death ticking down in his ears, with each flutter of his thready mouse heartbeat. Red in his eyes, it had ripped through his body, screaming and begging and no, no, no, I can't die, not yet, I haven't done anything yet! And it had been then that he'd seen it for what it was: no gift at all, but a horror.
No time for goodbye, he said, as he faded away;
Don't put your life in someone's hands, they're bound to steal it away;
Don't hide your mistakes, 'cause they'll find you.
If I go, I can only hope that I make it to the other side.
Sayu watched some ridiculous things on television. Not that Light didn't, but at least he had the sense to do it in his room.
One of her favourites was about a badly-dubbed American girl, who was blonde and fought vampires. Sachiko would make her turn it off, and Light would play his usual game of lipreading what the actors had said. He was sixteen, unsure of his place, and one of the lines had resonated with him. Death is your gift. He'd never cared to see the plot resolve, but that line had stuck around.
He hadn't thought of it when he found the notebook, when he read the rules on its cover as easily as breathing. He hadn't thought of it when he'd shrugged and written down the very first name. He hadn't thought of it as he'd panicked, and told himself that it couldn't be real. But he'd thought of it in the hours afterwards, his mind become the devil's plaything. A fairytale; a frustrated child's power fantasy. Trails of breadcrumbs leading to his destiny. It wasn't real, but for just these few hours, he was going to pretend it was.
So it had been there as the truck mowed the second name down in front of his eyes. It had been there as he knew himself a murderer, and fled into the alleyway to retch and let the freezing November rain drench him. It had been right there when he turned his back on what he'd done, turned it right around to paint himself white again. To force the rain itself to wash him clean. Death is your gift.
If you want to get out alive, run for your life.
Reduced to an understanding, it had been there when L died - that man who'd claimed to be his friend, but who they both knew was as great a liar as Light himself. All those memories of the time Light wasn't truly there, hazier by the day, but enough left over that he'd thought, What have I done?. Only appearances, of course. He'd had no time for such sentiment, not with other questions to think of: Is this really it? Is it really over? It had been there when he realised it really was; L, who'd threatened his image and his life in front of the world, who'd been the only one who could stop him; L was dying for his sins. It had been there as the gloating disbelief seared him clean, fire and acid and glory.
It was there when he realised circumstances had trapped him, that his father couldn't be dissuaded from taking the shinigami eyes. It was there when he clenched his fists in his lap and gave him the order to make the trade. It was there when he worked to soil his father's dying moments with murder, when he screamed his frustration at the man's stupid human weakness, and then realised it wasn't the most important thing at all; that his father had gone forever to his grave. That he'd gone believing Kira evil, and Light's work a sham, and could never, never, never be shown the error of his ways. You're not Kira, Light. I'm so glad.
If I stay it won't be long until I'm burning on the inside.
And it had been there at the very end, when he'd made people and events into warp and weft and spun a design all his own. It had been there when he'd walked into the warehouse and known it for a fact - his victory, his apotheosis. It had been there as he revelled in revealing himself, as he'd done so many times before. I win, Near!
But by the time he saw himself exposed, it had gone. When he'd gathered himself to make his case, he'd had only the barest inkling of it. And then Matsuda and the bullets had crippled him into a writhing, begging mess of mindless agony on a concrete floor, and it had still been gone. Only at the very end had it returned, when he'd seen his own name in wavering characters on a blank page. His own death ticking down in his ears, with each flutter of his thready mouse heartbeat. Red in his eyes, it had ripped through his body, screaming and begging and no, no, no, I can't die, not yet, I haven't done anything yet! And it had been then that he'd seen it for what it was: no gift at all, but a horror.
No time for goodbye, he said, as he faded away;
Don't put your life in someone's hands, they're bound to steal it away;
Don't hide your mistakes, 'cause they'll find you.