#TEN ELEGY {18Coda}
Title: Entombed
Author: neurotoxic
Theme: Elegy
Fandom: Death Note
Characters: Near-centric (with mentions of Mello).
Warnings: n/a
Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. Not just as planned.
Summary/Comments: He's not a person anymore, not really.
He's not a person anymore, not really. Sure, all the inner-workings are there, the organ systems are running like a charm, and his mind is nothing short of the perfect tool, chipped and chiseled away to perfection. But there's something missing, and Near's painfully aware of this when he builds his tarot-card towers and dice-wall castles, when he frowns because the pieces of his favorite puzzle are so worn-down that they just don't fit together properly.
The scale's been tipped ever since Mello broke his word. Number two never did meet him at the finish line, Near was greeted with the remnants of a corpse, charred and black, instead. Everything after that has only grown more stagnant, the cotton-white pajamas that pool over his body feel like a second skin that's become too loose, black eyes have been reduced to hollow pits, and hair has long-since gone uncut. It's like his body has become Mello's tomb, an elegy composed of flesh and blood.
Near's lips curve upward at the thought, crooked and twisted, it's the spitting image of the way he used to smile when he was alive. But it's not enough, and it never will be, and Near knows that when he makes another mistake (it'll invariably happen, without a doubt, there's no longer a counterweight to stop it) that Mello won't be there to play the role of a martyr.
He looks forward to that day.
Author: neurotoxic
Theme: Elegy
Fandom: Death Note
Characters: Near-centric (with mentions of Mello).
Warnings: n/a
Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. Not just as planned.
Summary/Comments: He's not a person anymore, not really.
He's not a person anymore, not really. Sure, all the inner-workings are there, the organ systems are running like a charm, and his mind is nothing short of the perfect tool, chipped and chiseled away to perfection. But there's something missing, and Near's painfully aware of this when he builds his tarot-card towers and dice-wall castles, when he frowns because the pieces of his favorite puzzle are so worn-down that they just don't fit together properly.
The scale's been tipped ever since Mello broke his word. Number two never did meet him at the finish line, Near was greeted with the remnants of a corpse, charred and black, instead. Everything after that has only grown more stagnant, the cotton-white pajamas that pool over his body feel like a second skin that's become too loose, black eyes have been reduced to hollow pits, and hair has long-since gone uncut. It's like his body has become Mello's tomb, an elegy composed of flesh and blood.
Near's lips curve upward at the thought, crooked and twisted, it's the spitting image of the way he used to smile when he was alive. But it's not enough, and it never will be, and Near knows that when he makes another mistake (it'll invariably happen, without a doubt, there's no longer a counterweight to stop it) that Mello won't be there to play the role of a martyr.
He looks forward to that day.