[ooc] [fic] rapunzel.
Another one for the_gabih at comment_fic. I should shut up and tag, huh? Light and Sayu, Kira victory AU.
The apartment is a gilded cage.
Cameras guard it within, and armed guards without. The area is isolated, and the tower is high. All the windows are sealed, and air conditioning is no substitute for a spring breeze and birdsong. The woman within is frailer than she was, old before her time, burdened with knowledge she shouldn't have, and things she can't change, and love. She no longer sings.
Every first of the month, a quiet black car arrives with its police escort in tow, speed and flashing lights and no siren. The man inside is also older than he should be, and the lackeys who treat him with the utmost deference don't realise he's their god. As he enters the building, his fingers move to his lapel, removing something: a small, tasteful pin, a crescent moon; he's camouflaged as his own high priest.
The walls are soundproofed, and the guards can't hear - not the quiet, neutral conversation he offers her over tea, or the betrayed silence she returns, that sometimes cracks into sobs, or screams, or accusations. They don't hear the strained discussions degrade into politics and religion - the same thing, as they now are, and perhaps always were - or to a family sacrificed on the altar of a false god. They don't hear her attack him, and throw things, weeping and scratching, throwing decent punches and dissolving into slaps: how could you do this to us? to me? why? why? why? He holds her wrists until her anger fades, and he can leave, utterly composed.
Sometimes bruised, sometimes bleeding, he returns to his office in his own high tower, trailing black feathers and crowing laughter, and he writes, and he writes, and he writes: name after name until dawn. It's not all he does, but it's the most important part; bleach poisoning society into perfection. One day, she'll call him oniisan, and tell him she wants to listen.
Until then, he can wait.
The apartment is a gilded cage.
Cameras guard it within, and armed guards without. The area is isolated, and the tower is high. All the windows are sealed, and air conditioning is no substitute for a spring breeze and birdsong. The woman within is frailer than she was, old before her time, burdened with knowledge she shouldn't have, and things she can't change, and love. She no longer sings.
Every first of the month, a quiet black car arrives with its police escort in tow, speed and flashing lights and no siren. The man inside is also older than he should be, and the lackeys who treat him with the utmost deference don't realise he's their god. As he enters the building, his fingers move to his lapel, removing something: a small, tasteful pin, a crescent moon; he's camouflaged as his own high priest.
The walls are soundproofed, and the guards can't hear - not the quiet, neutral conversation he offers her over tea, or the betrayed silence she returns, that sometimes cracks into sobs, or screams, or accusations. They don't hear the strained discussions degrade into politics and religion - the same thing, as they now are, and perhaps always were - or to a family sacrificed on the altar of a false god. They don't hear her attack him, and throw things, weeping and scratching, throwing decent punches and dissolving into slaps: how could you do this to us? to me? why? why? why? He holds her wrists until her anger fades, and he can leave, utterly composed.
Sometimes bruised, sometimes bleeding, he returns to his office in his own high tower, trailing black feathers and crowing laughter, and he writes, and he writes, and he writes: name after name until dawn. It's not all he does, but it's the most important part; bleach poisoning society into perfection. One day, she'll call him oniisan, and tell him she wants to listen.
Until then, he can wait.